Happy Christmas, Harry Potter!
by Nimori
Summary: SLASH. When Harry and Lucius lose what's most important to them, they unexpectedly gain something precious.
1. The Empty Cage

Let's try this again. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the   
last incarnation before it Mysteriously Vanished (TM).  
  
Title: Happy Christmas, Harry Potter!  
Author: Nimori ( nimorii@yahoo.ca )  
Pairings: HP/LM, HP/DM implied  
Rating: will probably be R  
Disclaimer: See that lady over there? Hers, not mine. See  
all the money? Same deal.  
Archive: Beloved Enemies; my site; others please ask  
Feedback: is a wonderful thing.  
  
Summary: When Harry and Lucius lose what's most important  
to them, they unexpectedly gain something precious.  
  
Irrelevant Author's Note: Gosh, I seem to be writing an  
awful lot of mpreg lately. Don't know why; it's not a  
particular kink of mine. Apologies to Mr Schultz.  
  
*italics*  
  
  
WARNING: SLASH and MPREG. Don't like, don't read.  
  
  
* * * * *  
  
One: The Empty Cage  
  
  
"Mr Harry Potter is waiting here while Nilly fetches  
Master."  
  
Feeling meek and insignificant in the cavernous hall, Harry  
obeyed the house-elf. He dared not sit on the spidery,  
unwelcoming furniture, though he was tired form the flight  
and the marble floor felt cold and hard through the thin  
soles of his battered trainers. He needed new shoes. He  
shifted his weight to ease his feet.  
  
Somewhere in the room a clock ticked, the only sound but  
for his own breath, and he wished in vain for any number of  
Weasleys to fill the cold emptiness with their warmth and  
chatter. His throat tightened at the reminder. No more  
unequivocal welcome from that quarter; those who forgave  
him Draco could not forget Ginny. No matter that their lips  
absolved him, whatever ease he felt with them evaporated,  
and even Molly's once-free smiles dried up.  
  
He pulled the travel cloak closer around his body, but the  
chill had sunk into him somewhere over London. He had  
regretted not accepting the Ministry's offer of  
tranportation before he'd even left King's Cross, but he'd  
had enough accusations of glory-seeking that he was  
uncomfortable accepting special treatment from them. Bad  
enough he asked for the three-day magic pass, but there was  
no way he would enter the serpent's den without the freedom  
to defend himself.  
  
"Mr Potter."  
  
*Ah, the snake himself*, Harry thought, and turned to greet  
his host. Malfoy's appearance shocked him -- long hair tied  
back in a sloppy ponytail, shirt untucked, signs of an  
overly hasty depilatory charm on his jaw -- before he  
remembered the man had lost as much as Harry these last two  
weeks. "Mr Malfoy."  
  
"To what do I owe the honour of having the child-hero of  
the wizarding world grace my humble home with his  
illustrious presence?"  
  
"I couldn't say." Harry met the icy and too-familiar eyes,  
though it took more courage that facing down Voldemort. "If  
you're asking why *I'm* here, I could."  
  
Malfoy smirked, and waved him toward one of the spindly,  
dangerous-looking chairs, but Harry ignored the invitation.  
"Far be it from me to deny you. Why are *you* here, Mr  
Potter? I assure you, there are no more Dark Lords left for  
you to slay, least of all in this house."  
  
The words fell bitterly, and Harry regretted baiting the  
man then, and searched for a way out of the antagonism he'd  
created. "Draco... Draco left some things in my dorm. The  
house-elf missed packing them. I thought you'd like them  
back."  
  
Malfoy's mouth tightened, and he nodded curtly. An awkward  
moment passed before Harry realized he ought to produce the  
items. He fumbled in his pockets, fingers sifting through  
shrunken broom, trunk, invisibility cloak, and empty owl  
cage before closing over the tiny box. A murmured  
'engorgio' brought it back to proper size, and he set it on  
a high table, ignoring Malfoy's sharp look; it wouldn't  
hurt to let the man know he had permission to use magic,  
though Harry chose not to tell him the pass was only good  
for three days. Plenty of time for him to fly to Malfoy  
Manor from the train station, drop off Draco's things, and  
continue to Surrey for his final summer with the Dursleys.  
  
The box contained little more than clothing, a few personal  
items, a text book, and a bag of sweets from Honeydukes,  
and Harry knew Dumbledore could have easily sent them by  
owl-post. Which led him to the other reason for making the  
trek to Malfoy Manor.  
  
Malfoy had raised a brow, probably wondering what Harry was  
still doing there.   
  
"Mr Malfoy, you... I know you were aware of my...  
relationship with your son." The brow came down like a  
portcullis, and Harry cleared his throat. "I suppose I  
should tell you... What I mean is--"  
  
"Whatever it is, say it and get out, Potter," Malfoy  
snarled.  
  
Perversely, Harry continued with his story. "I don't know  
if you realize I was injured in the battle. I woke up in  
the hospital wing last week..."  
  
* * * * *  
  
The light blinded him as much as the darkness had, and for  
a moment he wasn't sure if he was awake, asleep, or dead.  
Then he heard voices again, and managed to focus his eyes.  
  
"... remarkably little internal damage, thank Merlin, and  
I've set his skin with Rederming potion."  
  
Which explained why his skin tingled.  
  
"Will he wake soon, Poppy? We'd best speak to him before Mr  
Black returns."  
  
Dumbledore. He always seemed to be there when Harry woke in  
the hospital wing. "M'wake," he said, struggling for true  
consciousness. "Whazzit, an' why can't Siri hear?" He  
blinked, trying to clear his vision before he realized he  
didn't have his glasses. "Any'ne see what hit me?"  
  
"Oh, only a dozen or so unforgivables," Dumbledore said,  
twinkling.  
  
"Hope Hooch gave 'em a foul," he mumbled, then sat  
abruptly, ignoring both Pomfrey's angry warning and his own  
skin's shriek of protest. "Voldemort!"  
  
"Dead and dust, my boy, thanks to you."  
  
Harry lay back and allowed Pomfrey to recoat him with a  
foul-smelling purple goo. "What happened?"  
  
"Just the epic battle we've all been waiting for. We won,  
by the way."  
  
"Ginny?"  
  
Dumbledore lost his twinkle. "I'm afraid Miss Weasley did  
not survive the transformation. Voldemort's hold on her was  
too strong."  
  
Harry closed his eyes and tried to keep his tears inside,  
or at least hovering beneath his lids. If he cried for  
Ginny now, his tears would quickly turn to grief for Draco,  
and then he might never stop. "What... What is it you don't  
want Sirius to know?"  
  
"Ah... Poppy?"  
  
"Mr Potter, you're a very lucky young man. You survived a  
blast which flattened half the Forbidden Forest with  
nothing more than a broken leg and a few bumps and bruises.  
And minus the top layers of your skin, of course, but if  
you *lie still and let the potion work* it will grow back.  
However, while running the diagnostic charm, I came across  
a pre-existing medical condition."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Potter, are you sexually active?"  
  
For a moment, pain laced his chest, then the rage which had  
simmered beneath his skin since Draco's death burst free.  
"What?!"   
  
"I think what Madame Pomfrey wants to know is if you have  
been, ah, experimenting with the Venusian arts," Dumbledore  
said.  
  
"Sex magic," Pomfrey clarified.  
  
"No! Of course not, that's illegal." Harry glared at them,  
and Dumbledore, at least, had the grace to look contrite,  
though whether for the accusation or the reminding of Draco  
Harry didn't know. The two shared a complicated look, and  
seemed to conclude Dumbledore should do the talking.  
  
"We're very glad to hear that, Harry. It does, however,  
raise other problems."  
  
"What problems? Is there something wrong with me?"  
  
"Not wrong, per se, but... Are you familiar with the  
phenomenon of autonomancy?"  
  
Harry shook his head.  
  
"Quite common, really, most magical children perform it a  
few times during childhood, and in rare cases during  
puberty, particularly young witches... ahem. In  
extraordinary circumstances, an adult may perform  
autonomancy, usually while under great stress. It's a form  
of unfocused magic--"  
  
"Wandless magic?"  
  
"Yes, autonomancy is nearly always wandless, but in  
addition to occurring without an exterior focusing medium  
such as a wand or a potion, it also happens without  
*interior* focus. In other words, without the wizard's  
intent."  
  
"Is this like my hair growing back overnight whenever Aunt  
Petunia cut it?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded and beamed.  
  
"So what did my magic do this time?"  
  
The headmaster's smile turned strained, and he waved  
Pomfrey on with a subtle twitch of his fingers.  
  
"Great Merlin, Albus... Harry, dear, you're pregnant.  
Congratulations."  
  
Harry blinked. "I'm sorry, Madame Pomfrey, but I thought  
you said I was pregnant."  
  
"You are, dear. Three months along, in fact. Looks like it  
will be a Christmas baby."  
  
"Male pregnancy is quite a feat, my boy," Dumbledore added.  
"The Venusian equivalent is very advanced magic, and the  
Ministry requires the wizard to pass advanced  
transfiguration, charms, and potions tests before they'll  
authorize one. Of course, you won't need to worry about  
transfiguring any... body parts, or transferring the, er,  
other father's... contribution... or taking supplementary  
potions during your pregnancy. Autonomancy can do things  
beyond the reach of modern magic. Really an astounding  
phenomenon. Astounding."  
  
Harry stared at his once-again beaming headmaster. *I'm  
pregnant. Pregnant. Me. I'm having a baby.*  
  
*Draco's baby.*  
  
And that was all he could take. His chest hitched once, and  
then the tears started, soundless, as he had always cried  
in silence. They scorched across his half-healed skin,  
burning salty tracks on his cheeks, and he curled up,  
turning his back to Dumbledore and Pomfrey, not wanting  
them to see his vulnerability. He hated crying in front of  
witnesses.  
  
*'Whassa matter, ickle Harrykins?'* Dudley's voice, half  
memory, half voice of childhood demon. *'Little queer freak  
all alone and up the duff? Boyfriend dump you? No, wait,  
you got him killed before he could walk out on you.'*  
  
*Shut up,* he told it, but it was hard to escape his own  
thoughts. He dimly heard Pomfrey chase Dumbledore off, felt  
her hands soothing more Rederming potion on his back,  
sensed her leave him in peace.   
  
And later, when his skin had gone numb and his tears had  
mostly dried, he felt the weight of a dog on his legs, and  
reached down to run his fingers through dark fur. And  
Snuffles added his soft whimpers to Harry's, and he wept  
again for all he had lost.  
  
And perhaps, a little, for what he had gained.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Malfoy's eyes swept over Harry's stomach, making his skin  
crawl. "Three months, you said?"  
  
"Yes. The baby is due mid-December. You're... you're  
welcome to, um, visit when it's born."  
  
"And where will you be living while you're carrying my  
grandchild?"  
  
"With my aunt and uncle."  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed to silver slits. "Muggles, aren't  
they?"  
  
"Yes." Harry tilted his chin up, daring Malfoy to protest.  
Since the latter days of the war, the slightest anti-muggle  
sentiment was cause for a paranoid Ministry to pounce, and  
apparently Malfoy had learned that lesson, for he held his  
tongue on the matter.  
  
"I shall provide--"  
  
"That's not necessary." Harry met Malfoy's raised brow with  
one of his own. "My financial situation is sound, and once  
my godfather's trial is over, I'll be living with him."  
  
"Will you be finishing school?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet. I'm going back to Hogwarts in the fall.  
The baby will be born at the end of first term, and after  
that..."  
  
"I can provide a nanny."  
  
"*No.* Thank you. I will be raising my child myself."  
  
"Your child is a Malfoy, Mr Potter. He deserves the best."  
  
Harry smirked. "Precisely. I must be going now, Mr Malfoy.  
I'll notify you when the baby is born."  
  
"You didn't apparate here, did you?" Malfoy asked sharply.  
  
Harry laid a protective hand over his belly. "Of course  
not. I'm well aware of the dangers. I flew."  
  
"You flew."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"On a broom."  
  
"No, I grew wings."  
  
"Don't be smart. You'll return home by carriage."  
  
"I will not."  
  
"Mr Potter, it's getting dark out. Do you really wish to  
fly all that way, at that altitude, on an uncomfortable  
broomstick, in the dark?"  
  
Harry hesitated. He was still chilled from his flight from  
King's Cross; the temperature had dropped since then, and  
while it was June, the wind at that height would be fierce.  
Gryffindor pride voted for independence, but the quiet  
voice Draco had called his Slytherin sense told him to  
think of their child.  
  
Merlin, it hurt to think his name.  
  
"Thank you, Mr Malfoy." Harry inclined his head, trying for  
graciousness and achieving only wounded dignity. "They live  
in Little Whinging."  
  
"I know." Malfoy smirked as though he'd won a victory, and  
Harry supposed, from his point of view, he had. 


	2. The Straw that Burst the Camel's Bubble

Two: The Straw that Burst the Camel's Bubble  
  
  
The carriage rocked gently as it carried Harry to Surrey and the little house he refused to call home. Between the motion and the warmth from the miniature hearth set in the door, Harry's lids sunk to half-mast, but, despite the inviting bed along the back wall, he didn't think he could sleep. Not with two large golden eyes watching his every move.  
  
In true Malfoy style, the vehicle came with its own house... rather, carriage-elf. The creature had introduced himself as Bibbly, and seemed heartbroken at Harry's consistent refusal to make use of his services. He wished he could dismiss Bibbly, but the carriage-elf apparently lived in the luggage compartment, and Harry sympathized with anyone who had to live in a space he couldn't stand up in.  
  
"Would Mr Harry Potter be wanting some hot chocolate?"  
  
"No, thank you, Bibbly."  
  
Bibbly squeaked and dabbed his eyes with a corner of his canvas toga, which may have begun its existence as a tarp. "Mr Harry Potter has thanked Bibbly!"  
  
A full minute passed in silence and gold eyes glowing cat-like in the firelight.  
  
"Would Mr Harry Potter be wanting to toast some marshmallows?"  
  
The thought of sticky-sweet, runny goo turned his stomach. "No, thank you, Bibbly."  
  
Bibbly squeaked and dabbed his eyes with a corner of his toga. "Mr Harry Potter has thanked Bibbly!"  
  
Harry sighed.  
  
It was nearing midnight when the carriage pulled into the drive of number four, Privet Drive, and parked next to the Dursley's minivan. Harry opened the door and jumped out before Bibbly could offer to carry him.  
  
"Would Mr Harry Potter be wanting a pedicure?" the carriage-elf shrieked after him.  
  
"No. Thank you. Bibbly."  
  
"Oooh, Mr Harry Potter has thanked Bibbly!"  
  
Harry shut the door in his face, and the carriage, having neither driver nor horses, simply went off in reverse, and was soon out of sight. He pulled his cloak closer, heart a dull weight in his chest. Every year he returned to this house with more guilt and grief on his soul, from Cedric's death in his fourth year, Hagrid's in his fifth, and this year...  
  
The list had grown this year.   
  
Ginny.  
  
Lupin.  
  
McGonagall.   
  
Draco.  
  
*Merlin, I hurt.* He shoved the pain deeper, and pulled on the cloak of composure he would need to get through the summer. *The last summer. Never have to see them again.*  
  
He paused at the end of the walk, suddenly realizing the Dursleys would not be happy if he knocked on the door so late. For a moment he wished he'd thought to ask the carriage to drive him around until dawn, staring Bibbly and all, then thought he'd rather sleep in the tool shed than let Malfoy know his own relatives intimidated him.  
  
*Tool shed it is,* Harry thought, then mentally kicked himself. *Potter, you're an idiot.* He drew his wand, and aimed for the lock. "Alohamora."  
  
Grinning to himself, he crept into the house.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Petunia's shrill scream jerked him from sleep, warning enough to cover his eyes as she flailed his head with a tea towel.  
  
"Wretched, wretched boy! How dare you! How did you get in here?"  
  
"I--"  
  
"Vernon! I found the culprit. It was *him*."  
  
Heavy thudding on the stairs presaged more trouble, and Harry buried his face in his pillow.  
  
"Boy." Vernon's voice was quiet and controlled, and reminded Harry of Snape just before a massive point reduction. He dared to peek from his pillow, and saw Petunia standing with her arms crossed over her narrow chest, Vernon next to her with one meaty finger pointed at Harry.   
  
"Uncle Vernon, I'm sorry. I got in late and I didn't want to disturb you --"  
  
"Boy. You. Left. The. Door. Unlocked."  
  
Harry groaned, and cursed his own carelessness.  
  
"I have tolerated your presence in my house for fifteen years. I have fed and clothed you, put up with your devil-worship, watched you corrupt my son --"  
  
"It's not *my* fault Dudley stole that car!"  
  
"-- CORRUPT my son! And now you leave my house open to thieves and murderers while my family is asleep. I will *not* have it! You will toe the line, boy, or I'll call the mental hospital, tell them you think you can do magic." Vernon narrowed his small eyes, and his moustache rippled as he curled his lip. "One look in that trunk of yours, full of bottled cat lungs and books on demons, and they'll lock you up. Understand?"  
  
*One more summer,* Harry repeated silently. *One more summer. Two months. I killed Voldemort. I can survive two months with my 'family'.* "Yes, Uncle Vernon. I understand."  
  
"Good. Then you will get up, go downstairs, and make breakfast. After that, Petunia has a list of things to be done." As they left his room, Vernon added, "Might as well get our money's worth from him."  
  
And they did.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He had passed through his first trimester relatively unscathed, with only mild morning sickness which he easily dismissed as stress-induced, and few other symptoms.   
  
Not that he'd been looking for signs of pregnancy.  
  
Auspices for the second trimester appeared much worse, however, as his body protested the combination of poor diet and hard labour. *Poor kid,* Harry thought, tying a bandanna over his mouth and nose. *First I drag him through quidditch, then battles with Death Eaters and Dark Lords, now this.*  
  
'This', at the moment, consisted of climbing the ladder to the roof, where a hot bucket of tar waited to coat the shingles. He had to pause twice as the height sent his head spinning, and when he gained the roof he nearly wept at the sickening smell. He tightened the bandanna, and tried not to think of the small bit of porridge he'd had that morning lest he lose it. He had wanted to put tinned tomatoes and shredded coconut in it, but Aunt Petunia looked at him oddly when he asked.  
  
Three hours later, Harry paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead and straighten his back. The previous day's clouds had faded, and the sun seemed bent on reminding him it was July. He had long since hung his glasses from the ladder, as they kept fogging up with the heat from his face, so when the colourful blur popped into existence next to him he jerked back in surprise and long-ingrained panic. Lightheadedness combined with the slope of the roof to send him tumbling backwards, even as he remembered there were no more Death Eaters, no more Dark Lord.  
  
"Wingardium leviosa!"  
  
The spell caught him and lifted him none-too-gently, and deposited him on his feet. "Er, thanks."  
  
"Mr Potter, I presume?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Herbert Spiggleworth, WCW."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Wizarding Children's Welfare, Ministry of Magic."  
  
"Oh. Could I have my glasses, please?"  
  
"Certainly. Accio spectacles."  
  
The blur resolved itself into a short, plump, balding wizard in blinding aquamarine robes. Deep lines crossed his face, though he looked no more than forty.   
  
"Is there something wrong, Mr... um?"  
  
"Spiggleworth. Let's go inside, shall we?"  
  
"No!" Harry blushed as Spiggleworth raised an eyebrow, wrinkling his forehead like a Shar Pei. "I mean, my aunt and uncle are inside."  
  
"And you are uncomfortable being in the house with them?"  
  
"It's not that," Harry said, even though it was, partly. "They don't like wizards much."  
  
"I see. Not to worry, Mr Potter. I just need to ask them a few questions, then I'll be out of their wig."  
  
"You mean out of their hair?"  
  
"Yes, that's it." Spiggleworth smiled, and tapped the roof with his wand. A door appeared, which opened to reveal a set of floating steps descending into the attic. Harry eyed them with extreme suspicion. "Down you go, Mr Potter. Don't worry, I'll catch you if you lose your balance again."  
  
Harry was less concerned with losing his balance than with losing his breakfast, but he took a deep breath and braved the bobbing stairs. Solid ground never felt so good.  
  
"Quite a few broken things," Spiggleworth said, looking around at sixteen years worth of Dudley's childhood. "I suppose muggles can't do mending spells."  
  
"It's Dudley's second bedroom... well, attic now, I suppose. Uncle Vernon fixed it up after they gave me the other bedroom."  
  
"And what happened to your old room?"  
  
Harry flushed, and turned away to lower the stairs to the second floor. "Storage."  
  
"I see. Well, why don't you show me your new room."  
  
"I thought you wanted to talk to my aunt and uncle?"  
  
"No hurry."  
  
So Harry escorted Spiggleworth down the hall. All of the bedroom doors except Harry's stood open, and the Ministry wizard looked in each of them with a casual nosiness Harry found disturbing.  
  
"This is it, sir," Harry said, opening his door. He felt his face heat as he realized he'd left the closet door open, the trailing corner of a blanket clearly visible. Spiggleworth raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment, for which Harry was thankful, as explaining would involve the cupboard under the stairs. Sometimes he just needed to feel enclosed -- safe. At school he could let down the curtains around his bed, but despite the small size of his bedroom at the Dursleys', it echoed, disturbingly empty. Uncle Vernon had removed all of Dudley's things the year he had the attic redone; the same year he'd had Harry's window bricked over. At least Aunt Petunia had left him curtains. Harry noted a small gap in them and edged closer so he could twitch them closed, hiding the strip of red brick.  
  
Spiggleworth showed no sign of noticing as he looked around the room. "Where are your school things kept?"  
  
"In my old room."  
  
"You're keeping up with your summer assignments?"  
  
"Er, no, sir."  
  
"Hmm, wouldn't want to fall behind, Mr Potter. Downstairs, shall we?"  
  
Harry led the way to the kitchen, where he knew his aunt was preparing a dish for the neighbourhood potluck. "Aunt Petunia?"  
  
"What are you doing inside? You can't have finished the roof already."  
  
"Sorry. There's someone from the Ministry here to see you."  
  
"What --"  
  
"Mrs Dursley? Herbert Spiggleworth. I'm with the Ministry of Magic, Department of Wizarding Children's Welfare."  
  
Petunia dropped a jar of baby corn, which shattered on the hard tile floor. "You're one of *them*. What are you doing here? We told you people never to contact us."  
  
Spiggleworth ignored her and stepped closer, gaze casually cataloguing the room. He reminded Harry of a fussy mother-in-law obliquely inspecting the housework. "Is your husband home, Mrs Dursley?"  
  
She raised the hem of her apron to her mouth, and nodded, eyes wide and bulging. "He's... he's building a model ship with our son in the den."  
  
Harry snorted, knowing this meant Vernon was building the model while Dudley shouted complaints and played his portable video game.  
  
Spiggleworth gave him a sharp look. "Why don't you run and fetch Mr Dursley, Mr Potter."  
  
Swallowing hard, Harry obeyed.  
  
"... because I *want* it to be rocket-powered! I don't care if it's a Spanish brigantine, put rockets on it."  
  
"Now, Dudley, the kit doesn't come with rockets --"  
  
"Uncle Vernon?"  
  
Vernon dropped the shapeless mess of small wooden bits onto the desk. "Why aren't you tarring the roof, boy?"  
  
"There's a wizard from the Ministry here to see you."  
  
Vernon went pale, then flushed a dark, angry red. "What have you done now, boy? How dare you bring one of those people into my house?"  
  
"I didn't bring him. I don't know why he's here. I'm sorry," Harry said, though he wasn't, and he did have a fair idea why Wizarding Children's Welfare would show up now of all times. He touched his stomach, fingers trailing over his loose, sweaty shirt. *I won't let them take our baby, Draco.* "He's in the kitchen with Aunt Petunia."  
  
Dudley squealed and dove behind the sofa, and Vernon leapt up, scattering tiny pieces of Spanish brigantine (without rockets) across the rug. He thundered out the door as fast as his legs could carry him, and Harry followed, leaving Dudley cowering behind the sofa amidst the blips and beeps of his game.  
  
"... always thought wizards and muggles would get along so much better with more communication -- ah, Mr Dursley. Glad you could join us. Have a seat."  
  
"Get out of my house, you freak!"  
  
"I apologize for the intrusion, however I have only a few questions, and it will be easier on everyone if you choose to answer them now. If you decide not to cooperate, I can return with some aurors -- those are wizarding police, sir. No? Very good. Sit down."  
  
Vernon sat, and Harry waited by the door while Petunia poured the tea, over-filling the delicate cups.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs Dursley," Spiggleworth said. He produced a bulging folder from his robes. It said, 'Potter, Harry' across the front, and in smaller letters below, '3rd November, 1981'. "I understand you've been Mr Potter's guardians for the last fifteen years, eight months, correct?"  
  
"Yes, unfortunately." Vernon absently tossed four sugars into his cup, took a sip, grimaced. "What's the boy done this time? Do I have to pay any damages?"  
  
"I'll be forthright, Mr Dursley. We received information that Mr Potter's home life is not... how shall I put this... up to Ministry standards."  
  
Harry blinked. Vernon sputtered tea. Petunia gave a haughty sniff.  
  
"From what I've seen so far, his living space appears to be adequate, if a mite spartan compared to the rest of the house." Spiggleworth pinned Vernon with a stern glare. "His room is clean and otherwise sufficient -- barring the matter of the window. Is there a particular reason it is bricked over?"  
  
"He --"  
  
"Four years ago --"  
  
"-- flying car! Took off right through the air --"  
  
"-- heaven knows *what* the neighbours thought!"  
  
"Ah." Spiggleworth made a note in the folder. "Arthur's flying Ford Anglia. Yes, they still talk about that one around the pumpkin juice dispenser. And that brings me to the main reason for this visit. There is some... concern within the department, over your ability to discipline a young wizard like Mr Potter. The flying car debacle was only one incident in a long series. The unauthorized levitation in nineteen-ninety-two, the blowing up of Miss Margery Dursley in nineteen-ninety-three... Frankly, Mr Potter's current condition is the straw that burst the camel's bubble."  
  
Vernon and Petunia exchanged puzzled frowns, which Harry knew was only partially due to Spiggleworth's mixed colloquialisms. "What condition? What's wrong with him?" Vernon asked.  
  
"It's not catching, is it?" Petunia took an exaggerated step backward.  
  
"Well, it's nearly endemic these days, ha ha. Forgive me; little WCW humour there." Spiggleworth cleared his throat and looked down at his folder again. "No, nothing contagious, though I dare say quite preventable. No, Mr Potter has had yet another incidence of autonomancy, or so the school nurse at Hogwarts assures me. Good thing, too. Far too many teenagers go mucking about with Venusian magic. Borderline Dark Arts, I say."  
  
A squeak escaped Petunia at the mention of Dark Arts, though Harry had always assumed she thought all magic dark. Apparently she understood enough of her sister's schooling to know the difference.  
  
"Well, *I* say it's all black magic," Vernon said. "Bloody eerie owls hooting at indecent hours, cats reading maps, all those disgusting jars in his trunk."  
  
Spiggleworth pinned Vernon with a flat look of dislike. "While the Ministry cannot deny you your political opinions, I'm telling you off the quill that anti-wizard comments will not help your case any."  
  
"*What* case? Will you stop babbling nonsense and tell us what the boy did?"  
  
"I'm beginning to doubt 'the boy' did anything, Mr Dursley." Spiggleworth sat back and sipped at his tea. "I'm sure you are aware that Mr Potter killed Lord Voldemort last month and saved the world from the worst evil since Grindelwald."  
  
Vernon and Petunia did not seem very impressed with this, and in fact eyed Harry as though he had an ax up his sleeve and was waiting for the right moment to murder them.  
  
"Despite..." Spiggleworth rapped the table to regain their attention. "Despite this, or perhaps because of it, Mr Potter requires firm guidance. Are you aware that Mr Potter has not been doing his summer assignments?"  
  
Vernon smirked at Harry, who glared right back. "Wouldn't surprise me."  
  
Spiggleworth slapped the folder so hard his tea sloshed over the rim of his cup. "*Mr* Dursley, I don't think you realize the seriousness of the situation. Numerous incidences of autonomancy, Mr Dursley, which, *if reported*, might have prevented Mr Potter's current predicament. If you weren't muggles, you'd be up on negligence charges, sir! You have allowed your nephew to neglect his schoolwork. You restrict him in a manner which encourages more incidences of uncontrolled magic. Your efforts at discipline have been aimed at the symptoms and not the cause, which, unsurprisingly, led to further problems. Teenage pregnancy is *preventable*, sir, and in most cases a sign of a troubled home life."  
  
Harry edged back into the hallway as Vernon turned a spectacular shade of red. "Am I to understand that you think it *our* fault that miserable freak got some little tart pregnant?"  
  
"There is no 'little tart', Mr Dursley. Your nephew is the one who is pregnant, and everything I've seen today indicates this could have been prevented had you been capable of keeping him in line."  
  
Vernon's face left red in favour of purple, and he tossed Harry a poisonous look before slamming a fist onto the table, sending cups rolling and tea sloshing. "I'm telling you one last time before I call the police. Get out of my house."  
  
Spiggleworth nodded, collected his folder and stood. "Feel free to do so, Mr Dursley. I'll just step into the hall for a word with Mr Potter while you make your call."  
  
Harry crossed his arms over his stomach as Spiggleworth herded him out of the kitchen, Vernon's angry voice shouting at the telephone behind them. Harry knew his life would go to hell after the Ministry wizard left, and had to repeat his mantra of *One more summer* to himself. "Won't it cause trouble if the muggle police show up?"  
  
"All calls to emergency services from this house are redirected to the wizarding equivalent while you are in residence, Mr Potter. Mr Dursley is currently talking to the Department of Wizarding Law Enforcement." Spiggleworth steered him into the lounge. "Your uncle appears to have quite a temper."  
  
Harry declined to respond, as the answer was self-evident.  
  
Spiggleworth did not seem offended. "Does he ever hit you?"  
  
"No." Even as the word escaped his mouth, he remembered Vernon *had* hit him on rare occasions, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. Spiggleworth's lips thinned, and Harry added, "Maybe once or twice. If I broke something, or if I did that autonomancy thing."  
  
"I think you'll be leaving with me, Mr Potter, until we get this situation sorted out. Go and fetch your things."  
  
Harry hesitated, conflicted. He would happily leave the Dursleys behind, but he didn't trust the Ministry with his own welfare, let alone his child's. "I can't, sir. The door is locked."  
  
"I'll open it for you." Spiggleworth followed him back into the hall, and drew his wand as Harry gestured at the cupboard under the stairs. "I thought you said your things were in your old room. Alohamora." The door popped open, and there was a long silence as Spiggleworth stared at the trunk and broom stacked on Harry's old bed. After a moment he leaned in, trailed his wand over surfaces, flicked spiders with the tip. "How long did you sleep here?"  
  
"Until I went to Hogwarts."  
  
"Ten years?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Spiggleworth ran his wand over the latch, which had been sticky ever since Harry repeatedly kicked the door after being locked in when he was eight. The wand moved on to the scuff marks on the inside of the door. "Any ventilation? Besides the grate in the door?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Your new room upstairs. What was that before?"  
  
"Dudley's second bedroom."  
  
"And the fourth room?"  
  
"Guest room."  
  
"I see. Collect your belongings, Mr Potter, and bring them to the lounge." Spiggleworth stepped away. "Oh, your cousin is about your age, isn't he?"  
  
Harry nodded, and Spiggleworth left. In the kitchen, Vernon's shouting rose another decibel.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry set down his trunk, broom, and a duffel bag containing clothing and the few items he trusted the Dursleys with over the school year. He had never resized Hedwig's cage, and eventually threaded it on a rubber band and wore it like a girl's charm bracelet. Someday he might want another owl.  
  
Spiggleworth finished his conversation with the head floating in the fire, and the flames briefly returned to red and gold before they flicked green once more, and spat out a wizard in auror's robes. Soot filled the room as four more wizards flooed in.   
  
"The aunt and uncle are in the kitchen," Spiggleworth said. "There's another boy, I believe he's still in the den."  
  
"What's going on?" Harry asked.  
  
"Please step aside and allow the aurors through, Mr Potter. Thank you. Mr Happley and Mr Dhaliwal are here to ask your guardians some questions, and Mr Marceaux and Mrs Clearwater to inspect the premises. Miss Belson is to escort your cousin to another location. Come along now."  
  
"They're taking Dudley, too?"  
  
"Until the matter is settled, yes. Come *along*, Mr Potter."  
  
Harry stepped up to the fire as Spiggleworth drew a pinch of glittering red powder from a pocket and stepped up next to Harry. "What is that?"  
  
"Floo powder. Maternity variant. Takes much longer, but there is less jostling. Ministry of Magic, Family Services block!"   
  
To Harry's surprise, Spiggleworth stepped into the flames with him. "Why are we going to the Ministry?" Harry asked as fireplaces spun lazily by.  
  
"It's just a stopover. Both you and your cousin will be placed with wizard families until the Ministry is satisfied this home is suitable for children, or until a permanent guardian is appointed."  
  
"My godfather --"  
  
"Until your godfather's name is cleared *unequivocally*, he is not a suitable guardian."  
  
"The Weasleys," Harry said, then remembered Ginny.  
  
Spiggleworth's face softened for a moment. "We'll see, Mr Potter. We'll see."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Mrs Spiggleworth had frizzy, salt-and-pepper hair and an unfortunately singular eyebrow. Nonetheless she seemed quite kind, and smiled and waved at Harry from her bronze frame. Harry smiled back until she started making faces at him; he supposed the age of the two mini-Spiggleworths in the adjacent frames explained the picture's behaviour, but Harry was sixteen, not six.  
  
Seven hours after reaching the Family Services block, Harry was still in the same uncomfortable chair in Spiggleworth's office. After abandoning him for the first hour, the man had returned with a large, shallow basin of water, which he had set on the desk. Turning the chair to face the wall, he tipped Harry's head back, and pushed lightly on his forehead until the cold water brushed the back of his skull. From this surprisingly comfortable position, Harry answered a series of questions, ranging from predictable -- how often did his uncle drink alcohol -- to inane -- did Harry like curry, and were there any good take-out places in Little Whinging.  
  
When Spiggleworth finally allowed Harry to sit up, he turned to find the clear water had gone a viscous silver. With a start, he recalled Dumbledore's pensieve, but before he could protest, Spiggleworth capped the basin, and left the office with it. The door refused to open for Harry.  
  
It had been four hours since the man left, and Harry was getting angry. Spiggleworth Junior One had thrown something at Spiggleworth Junior Two, which set him crying and Mrs Spiggleworth yelling. The noise combined with the cold water on his head resulted in a headache, and he really, really needed to pee.  
  
The obstinate door opened at last, and Harry rose, intent on giving Spiggleworth a demonstration on why people shouldn't lock pregnant boys in rooms without loo access, but lost all indignation when Lucius Malfoy swept in.  
  
Malfoy had returned to the image of a wizard of pure blood and high station: clean shaven, hair neatly braided, black cloak spotless and imposing, snake stick gleaming and poised to bite.  
  
"Mr Potter. I trust you are feeling well."  
  
"Actually, *Mr Malfoy*, my feet hurt, I've a headache, it's too warm in here, and I've had to piss for the last two hours."  
  
"My apologies, Mr Potter," Spiggleworth said from the hall. He ushered a strange wizard in, and closed the door. "The facilities are through the other door."  
  
"That's a closet," Harry said, having checked several times just in case. Spiggleworth tapped the knob with his wand, then opened the door on a spacious, gleaming white washroom. Grumbling about stupid Ministry employees who thought he ought to be able to enter magic loos without his wand -- and over the summer holidays besides -- and didn't even keep potted plants around for emergencies, Harry went to placate his bladder.  
  
He returned to find the three men arrayed in various chairs, and decided to remain standing. Lucius smirked, and Spiggleworth frowned.  
  
"Mr Potter, this is Mr Malfoy's lawyer, Mr Armand. Mr Malfoy has expressed a desire for custody of the baby once he or she is born."  
  
"Over my dead body!" Harry stepped back, and crossed his arms over his belly, eyeing the door and wondering if that autonomancy thing would open it for him.  
  
"Calm down, Mr Potter. We have concluded that it would be in the child's best interest to remain with you unless there is an *actual* reason for the Ministry to step in." Spiggleworth gave Malfoy a hard stare, which Malfoy met, unfazed.  
  
"So why is he here now?" Harry asked, still watching the door.  
  
"Mr Malfoy agreed not to pursue custody if we would consider him for your temporary guardian."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And we have agreed."  
  
"Are you insane?" Harry hissed, leaning over Spiggleworth's desk. Spiggleworth Junior Two hit the mahogany with a metallic clatter. "He's a Death Eater!"  
  
"Mr Malfoy was cleared of any wrongdoing nearly a year ago, Mr Potter, and aside from his unfortunate former political affiliation, he has remained an upstanding citizen in the wizarding community. He can provide a stable home, has proven parenting skills, and has a personal interest in your welfare."  
  
"I simply wish to provide for my poor Draco's child," Malfoy said. The snake head glittered.  
  
"I can provide for my child myself."  
  
"Not while you are still a child yourself, Mr Potter." Spiggleworth righted the fallen picture. The child within was crying again. "Your aunt and uncle signed over custody of you this afternoon. You are a ward of the Ministry of Magic now, and as your legal guardians, we are appointing Mr Malfoy your caregiver until Mr Black is capable of assuming the duty."  
  
Malfoy stood, and the lawyer followed. "Collect your belongings, Potter. I've called for a carriage, and we should be home in time for tea."  
  
Harry turned and bolted for the loo, where he lost the remains of his long-forgotten breakfast all over the pristine white porcelain. 


	3. Snitched

Three: Snitched  
  
  
Even if the sight of the Boy-Who-Lived getting into a  
carriage with a former Death Eater outside the Ministry  
itself was fit for the front-page of the Prophet, Harry  
thought they drew an unwarranted amount of attention from  
passers-by. And then he realized that if the Ministry knew,  
naturally the papers did as well, which meant so did the  
entire wizarding world.  
  
Malfoy clucked and draped his cloak over Harry's shoulders,  
his eyes watching Harry's dart around. "It was in  
yesterday's Daily Prophet. Not the Skeeter woman -- I spoke  
directly with a junior reporter, who leapt at the chance  
for such a story."  
  
"You what?" Harry jerked away, ignoring the door Bibbly  
opened for him. "What in hell gives you the right to  
interfere with my life?"  
  
"I should think you would be grateful, Mr Potter," Malfoy  
said, taking Harry's arm and physically lifting him into  
the carriage. Malfoy climbed in behind him, and slid onto  
the padded bench next to Harry as the carriage-elf shut the  
door. A soft lurch, and the vehicle rumbled away down the  
street. "You are public property in the eyes of the media,  
and you should know by now that the press adores scandals  
of this magnitude. They would have torn you to shreds had I  
not contacted them and recited the version of events I  
wished them to print."  
  
"*Your* version. What about my version?"  
  
"If you wanted your version printed, you should have  
contacted them yourself. It's best to be preemptive when  
dealing with the press; at least you can control when and  
how the scandal breaks." Malfoy tried to tuck the cloak  
around him, and Harry slapped his hands away.  
  
"Stop that. And why are you wearing that thing anyway? It's  
July, for Merlin's sake."  
  
"Don't swear. I'm not sure how those muggles raised you,  
but my parents valued manners, which includes both proper  
language and appropriate dress in public -- hence the  
cloak. It has a cooling charm."  
  
"Then what good will it do to put it around me?"  
  
Malfoy paused, staring at a spot beyond Harry's head. "It  
will stop drafts."  
  
Harry stared at the man, wondering if he'd gone mad. "We're  
in a carriage. There aren't any drafts."  
  
Malfoy scowled, tossed the cloak on the opposite bench, and  
lit the fire in the door's hearth.  
  
"Are you crazy? I'm *not* cold."  
  
"You're pregnant."  
  
"And so you want to suffocate me? It's *July*. You're going  
to give me heat stroke."  
  
Another pause in which Malfoy stared past him, then a flick  
of his wand put the fire out.  
  
Harry, meanwhile, had been thinking of the day's events and  
drawing conclusions. "You're the one who reported the  
Dursleys to the Ministry. You told them I was pregnant."  
  
"I was not about to leave my grandchild in the care of  
those... people." Malfoy still refused to look at him,  
staring straight ahead.  
  
"I told you, I'll be living with Sirius by the time it's  
born."  
  
Malfoy snorted, and Harry deduced he didn't think Sirius  
much better than the Dursleys. "Nevertheless, for the next  
five months my grandchild is inside you, Potter, and that  
makes your welfare my business. Spiggleworth said they had  
you tarring the roof. The roof!" Malfoy twisted furiously  
in his seat to glare at Harry. "Do you have any idea how  
dangerous that was? Why did you do it? Why didn't you,  
slayer of Dark Wizards, stand up to a pair of pathetic  
muggles? Does the life of Draco's child mean so little to  
you?"  
  
Harry flinched. *He's right. Gods above, Malfoy is  
right.What if I caused a miscarriage? What if I fell off  
the roof?* He'd fallen into a pattern of mindless obedience  
over the summers, and only objected to extreme requests...  
but was tarring the roof extreme? He didn't know. He wasn't  
sure exactly what consisted of normal chores, as Dudley  
didn't do any and his only other experience with families  
consisted of time with the Weasleys, and he knew degnoming  
gardens wasn't exactly normal. Harry thought of his baby,  
and it struck him that he or she depended entirely on him  
for existence. Terrified, he wrapped his arms tightly  
around himself, and turned away to look out the window. The  
scenery scrolled along, and every few minutes the carriage  
would lurch, and the would vista change.  
  
Malfoy snorted from his side of the bench, breaking the  
long silence. "I thought so. You're not fit to be a parent,  
Potter, no matter what the Ministry says. Not until you  
grow up."  
  
"I won't give up my child," Harry whispered as the busy  
street changed to a tree-shaded country road, then a barren  
highway pacing across a moor. "And you can't take it from  
me."  
  
"So Mr Spiggleworth and Mr Armand have advised me," Malfoy  
said bitterly, "but that won't stop me from trying if you  
fight me on this. Did you honestly expect me to let you  
walk off with the heir to the Malfoy estate? To show up  
once to see the baby, then send horribly expensive gifts  
twice a year?"  
  
Harry flushed, for that was just what he had assumed.   
  
Malfoy made a disgusted sound, and they sat in silence for  
the rest of the journey.  
  
* * * * *  
  
He had first visited Malfoy Manor near dusk, and the  
raiding shadows had obscured the sculpted grounds,  
distorted the opulent buildings. As the carriage turned  
down a tree-lined lane, the bright, late-afternoon sunshine  
lit the estate, catching on turrets and balconies, glinting  
off a small river girdled with an arched stone bridge,  
playing hide-and-seek with a little hamlet far beyond. It  
looked like a smaller sibling of Hogsmeade, and he wondered  
if he would be able to visit.   
  
*Malfoy may not be as bad as we thought, but I don't trust  
him not to lock me up for the summer.* "What's the town  
called?"   
  
"Folkrose. It was once called Foicroisement -- Faith's  
Crossing -- but the name was Anglicized several centuries  
ago."  
  
"Oh."  
  
The sound of polite disinterest did not dissuade Malfoy.  
"My family has owned this land for over nine-hundred  
years."  
  
"Congratulations."  
  
"The muggles in the village once tithed to the manor,  
before the government made it illegal for wizards to own  
muggle serfs."  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"They aren't muggles now, of course. Nine centuries of  
Malfoy bastards have brought the blood up to acceptable  
standards. Am I boring you, Mr Potter?"  
  
"That's nice."  
  
"You realize all this goes to your child."  
  
Harry bit his lip as the carriage turned onto a long drive  
lined with statuary, passing through wrought-iron gates  
topped with a pair of rampant dragons, which appeared to  
battle over a rose. "Why are you doing this?"  
  
Malfoy did not answer, and they were nearly at the house  
before he spoke again. "The Malfoys were never prolific; at  
least not within the marriage bond, or failing that, with  
those of adequate power and station." A sharp look let him  
know he fell in this last category -- barely. "I have no  
cousins, at least not of any worth. Coming from the  
background you do, I'm sure this means little to you, but  
for a family of our stature this is a disaster. The  
centuries we have held here... this empire we have  
built..."  
  
Harry snorted. "I hope megalomania isn't hereditary." A  
wounded silence, then, "Look, I'm sorry. I understand your  
position, but you have to understand this is *my* child,  
and he's all I have left."  
  
Malfoy whispered, barely audible, "He's all I have left, as  
well."  
  
* * * * *  
  
Bibbly attended to the door, looking considerably more  
squashed than he had outside the Ministry. The impression  
on his cheek resembled a cast of the lock on Harry's trunk,  
and a surge of anger shook him; Malfoy could have easily  
shrunk Harry's luggage. Another elf appeared to smuggle  
Harry's things into the manor with the least amount of  
disruption to the master and his guest, and Malfoy led  
Harry inside.  
  
"This is the foyer. The dining room is to your left, the  
little hall is to your right, ballroom straight ahead. Left  
staircase leads to the east wing, right to the west --  
which you're not to go poking around in. In fact, do go  
anywhere unescorted. This house has many... foibles.  
  
"That," Malfoy continued, gesturing to the house-elf  
cowering unnoticed by the left staircase, "is Zimble. He  
will serve you exclusively. Report him to Nilly if he  
causes you grief. Tea is at eight." With that, Malfoy swept  
away, swirling his cooling-charmed cloak.  
  
The house-elf scurried up to Harry the moment Malfoy's  
cloak disappeared around the corner, and his timid fa 


	4. A Miracle of Rare Device

Warning: The squeamish among you may want to skim the midwitch's examination. It's rather detailed, as I am attempting to BS my way through making a pregnant man seem remotely plausible. The jargon looks pretty and means nothing. I tried :)

4. A Miracle of Rare Device

"MisterHarryPotterSir!"

Harry jerked awake and sat up -- or tried to. There seemed to be a bed in his way, and he grunted as his nose made contact.

"Sir! Where is you?"

"Ow. Zimble, stop yelling. I'm under the bed." He scrambled out, wondering if his imagination made it seem a tighter fit or if he had expanded overnight. He spared a moment to feel for nasal damage before a more pressing concern made itself known, and he sprinted for the loo at an awkward hop-run.

Zimble followed, and Harry resolved to have a man-to-elf on the subject of bathrooms and Harry's Private Time very soon.

"Is there being a problem with Mis-- with HarrySir's bed?"

"No," he said, spending a few moments puzzling over the tapless faucet before he figured out it was spelled to turn on automatically. He washed his hands, then searched for his toothbrush and razor, fighting off Zimble's attempts to dry his hands for him. "The bed was very comfortable, just... I'm just used to curtains around the bed."

"Oooh, I is getting Sir some curtains from Nilly then."

"I don't want to make more work for you," Harry said, thinking that the four-poster had no rails, and that Hermione would turn him orange- and green-striped for a week if she found out.

"It is being no trouble at all, HarrySir."

"Thanks, Zimble. Aha!" He pulled his toiletries, still wrapped in their tatty plastic bag, from a drawer. "Er, is there any toothpaste?"

Zimble only stared blankly.

"What do underage wizards use on their teeth when they can't do cleaning charms?"

The house-elf pointed to a jar of white beads the size of gumballs. Nervously, Harry took one.

"I just... chew it?"

Zimble nodded, ears flapping.

One bite and Harry swore he'd never listen to a house-elf again. An explosion of mint-flavoured bubbles detonated in his mouth, frothing violently and scouring every surface they touched. A jet of foam shot from his mouth and splattered across the silver-framed mirror, causing it to shriek and curse at him.

"You needs to close your mouth for it to work, Sir!" Zimble shouted, but Harry leaned over the sink and spat frantically until the maelstrom subsided to a faint tingle.

"Next time, warn me if there's moving parts involved, all right?" Harry said, lips numb, as he grabbed a towel to wipe off the mirror.

"Sir! Rollie is doing that when she cleans MisterHarryPotterSir's rooms." Visibly upset, the house-elf snatched the towel away, then produced a small kit, which Harry recognized as a spell-o-shave kit only because Neville Longbottom had one; his attempts at depilatory charms invariably left him looking scruffy, and no one would suggest Neville take a razor anywhere near his face. "This is having moving parts, Sir," Zimble said slowly, as if to a child, and sat Harry down in a chair and placed a towel around his neck.

Harry swallowed, and tried to relax. Neville did this every morning, and never had so much as a scratch, but the sight of the razor and lathered brush flying towards him sent his hands groping for the chair arms. He held very still as the instruments whirled around his face and throat, not daring to breathe until they returned to their box. 

Zimble patted his face dry. "Breakfast is in the small dining hall when Sir is ready. The midwitch is being here at nine o'clock, Sir is studying from ten until twelve-thirty, dinner is at one, the tailor is being here at half past two, Sir is taking exercise from five till six, tea is at seven, Master has arranged a recital at eight, and then Sir is studying until bedtime."

"I take it Mr Malfoy arranged this... schedule?"

"Yes, Sir!"

Harry nodded sharply, and went to the garderobe to dress. He ignored the clothes the house-elf laid out -- his school robes were apparently the least embarrassing -- and pulled on a worn pair of jeans and an oversized, grass-stained rugby shirt. "I believe I'll take my meals in here today. Please inform Mr Malfoy that I will keep the appointments with the midwitch and tailor."

"But, Sir!"

"If he gives you trouble, come and tell me."

Zimble stood gaping for a moment, then vanished.

Smirking to himself, and hoping he hadn't caused problems for Zimble, Harry wandered into the sitting room. The bright morning sunshine dispelled some of the sombre ambiance of the night before. There were several couches, a fireplace, a dining table, bookcases, a standing harp, as well as numerous tapestries, paintings, and elaborate rugs in eastern designs. A narrow mural encircled the room near the ceiling, depicting the battles of a warrior and a silvery dragon, though this version ended in the dragon's favour.

Harry browsed the shelves while he waited for breakfast -- which was taking much longer than his snack the night before -- and finally settled on a leather-bound volume that looked to be fifteenth-century, eastern European. He'd taken an interest in printing and binding only after having to rewrite a Transfiguration essay three times due to choosing antiquated sources, and could now tell the approximate age and area of origin of most wizarding books from the cover. 

The book turned out to be an account of wizarding life in Egypt under the pharaohs. Only a few pages in, he realized Voldemort had not pulled his theories out of thin air; wizards had been firmly in control of the rest of the populace for most of the ancient empire's long history. He wondered why this wasn't taught in History of Magic. It was far more interesting, and more relevant, than Goblin wars.

The scent of breakfast intruded on his reading, and he set the account aside as Hermione had trained him too well to eat near an old book. A procession of house-elves popped into existence, each bearing a tray with a different dish. Harry scowled, and tried to determine if this was some new ploy of Lucius' to make him feel guilty, or if breakfast was always a twelve-course meal at the Malfoy house. The elves deposited the dishes on the table, then stood around, waiting to be put to use, and Harry decided on the first explanation. He certainly didn't need an army of house-elves to help him eat breakfast.

"Er, you can all go now," he said, beating an amber-eyed elf to the porridge ladle. "Someone please let me know when the midwitch gets here?"

They chorused agreement, bowed, and left him in peace. 

He didn't quite finish all twelve dishes, but he came close.

* * *

"Madame Saddler is here to see Sir," Zimble announced, and Harry looked up from a bloodthirsty account of the court of Hatshepsut, who had been a half-blood.

A scowling Lucius swept into the parlour, followed by a surprisingly young woman with auburn hair and more freckles than the entire Weasley family put together. She carried a large bag that clacked with the sound of potion bottles, and wore a white cap pinned firmly to her head, and a starched apron over her skirt. She looked like something out of Edwardian times; not unusual among wizarding society.

"This is Susan Saddler," Lucius said glaring at the witch. "Apparently Doctor Ferguson sent her."

"I did my thesis on autonomantic male pregnancy," Madame Saddler said, coming over to shake Harry's hand. She leaned in closer to murmur, "That and Doctor Ferguson owed Aunt Poppy a favour."

Relief shook him; Madame Pomfrey had sent him someone he could trust. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, Mr Potter. Now, if you'll excuse us, Mr Malfoy--"

"I'll stay, thank you."

Madame Saddler rounded on him. "You will not. I must examine Mr Potter, and some of my questions will be personal. You can wait outside, or I can send a house-elf to fetch you when we're through."

Lucius looked as though he might argue, then nodded sharply and stalked out.

Harry grinned at her as the door shut with more force than necessary. "Are all medical professionals such dragons?"

"Yes. It's a separate course: Roasting Pushy Relations and Intractable Patients. So behave or I'll turn the flames on you." She smiled crookedly, and set her bag on the table. "Since we're going to become intimately acquainted this morning, you can call me Susan, and I'll call you Harry, and then it won't be quite so embarrassing when I start asking you how many times you pee a day."

"Is fifty catrillion a number?"

She laughed, then set about poking and prodding, measuring and weighing. He came in at just over nine stone, and Susan clucked in disapproval, though he protested that his normal weight was closer to eight.

"Yes, you're gaining a decent amount, but you were underweight for your height to begin with. For your own health, you should bring it up a bit."

"I already eat like a horse," he grumbled. 

"That's good, because you'll need it. You're growing a person." She started in with the promised personal questions, everything from how often he was throwing up to whether or not he was still sexually active. Harry tried to answer impersonally, but some of the question hit close to sensitive issues.

"Does the other father's family have a history of genetic disorders? Heart disease?"

"I don't know."

"Mundanic syndrome?"

"What?"

"Squibs, dear."

"I don't know. Look, you'll have to ask Mr Malfoy about the family history."

"All right. That will do for now. If you could go in the bedroom, strip, and put this on please, Harry." She handed him a thin, folded robe.

Swallowing nervously, he did as he was told. The robe barely came to his knees, and he couldn't reach the ties to do them up, so he sat on the four-poster with one hand behind his back to hold it closed, knees pressed tightly together, socked feet dangling.

Susan knocked before coming in, and smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry, Harry. I'm just going to check that your pseudo-uterus is situated properly, and that your circumvenic channel is forming. Then we'll have a peek at the baby."

Harry let out a shaky breath and followed Susan's direction to lay on his stomach. She propped up his hips and arranged his legs to her satisfaction, and pushed the robe to the sides. Harry pressed his face into the coverlet, remembering the last time he'd been in that position.

"Take a deep breath and relax. Think of something pleasant."

Harry closed his eyes.

* * *

_"You're mad, you know that?"_

"Quite," Draco murmured, tugging him into the teacher's lounge and locking the door.

"We're going to get caught."

"What are they going to do, give us detention? There's a horde of Death Eaters headed this way. I'm sure half the school is shagging right now, teachers included."

"Ew! This is not turning me on, Draco." Harry shuddered, and tried to push the image of Dumbledore and McGonagall naked out of his head. Draco ignored him and stuffed his cold fingers inside Harry's robe, and nibbled eagerly on his neck. "Your hands are cold," Harry said, petulant and determined not to encourage his lover's sudden Gryffindorish daring.

"So warm them up."

He gave in with ill grace, and spun around in the circle of Draco's arms, pressing his body against the other boy's. "This isn't going to work, you know."

Draco set to the other side of his neck. "What won't work?"

"You're trying to distract me from the fighting by -- oh, yes, I like that -- by making me worry about getting caught instead."

In a typical Slytherin move, Draco changed the subject. "Want to shag in Snape's chair?"

"Draco! No."

"Come one. Let's leave him a present. A nice new stain on his seat cushion. Don't tell me it doesn't make you hot thinking of him sitting there, not realizing his arse is planted right on top your come."

"I'm not Slytherin. I don't get off on revenge." 

"No you're a Gryffindor, so you get off by sneaking into the teacher's lounge to shag your boyfriend."

Harry grinned, and allowed Draco to push him down to the rug. For all that they had never discussed it, their relationship was a surprisingly amiable and unfragile thing. No epiphanies, no sudden burst of passion, no blurring of hatred and love. Just one transparent decision to switch to the winning side, and one decision not to hold grudges, and a slow descent into this unspoken but well-understood space.

Draco's Harry-warmed fingers pushed robes aside, flung socks and ties and underclothes away. Hands heated skin; the wetness of tongues cooled it. He rolled Harry over, pulled him to his hands and knees, caressed the backs of his thighs. Then his lips touched Harry's arse, trailed across the soft cheek.

"I've never done this before," he announced, sounding rather proud of the fact, and Harry snorted, though he was oddly touched by the admission; they had come a long way since Christmas, when Draco attempted to bluff his way through what proved to be both of their first times with another male.

The hot hands parted him, and Harry shuddered as warm breath spilled over his suddenly exposed hole.

"Tell me what it feels like," Draco whispered, and then it was all heat and wetness and a blinding, breath-stealing pleasure. "Well?"

"Feels... feels like... you're licking me."

"Prat," Draco said, but the tongue returned.

"God, it's incredible," he panted. "You're incredible."

Draco only grunted, but it was a pleased grunt, and the motions sped up until Draco tore his mouth away, slid up until could thrust home, heat stabbing deep into Harry, breath huffing against his neck.

Harry pushed back into him, and whimpered when he felt Draco stiffen and shudder, and the hotness inside him suddenly increased. "You bastard. You couldn't have waited another-- hey!"

Draco hauled him to his feet, and stood behind him, both weaving on shaky legs. Draco's hand slipped down and took Harry's erection, and Harry leaned into the touch until he saw where Draco was aiming.

"Draco, no! I'll never make it through another Potions class." Despite his protests, he came quickly and hard, right on the seat of Snape's favourite chair, and sank down to the floor still wrapped in Draco's arms.

"Should have been in Slytherin, love."

Harry merely whimpered and flopped bonelessly on his side, feeling unaccountably weak.

"Are you all right?" Draco's gaze turned concerned, and he curled up behind his lover.

"I've been feeling a little off," Harry said, avoiding the unsettling grey stare. "It's just nerves. Stress."

Draco did not mention Ron, but tightened his hold on Harry. "Well you **look** delectable." He ran a finger down the side of Harry's face. "You're all rosy cheeks--" A kiss to his mouth. "-- and bitten pink lips. Very tasty." A tongue ran over those lips, and Harry opened his mouth, sucking the tongue in, then almost bit it off when the doorknob rattled.

"Who's in there?" McGonagall demanded, voice shrill with stress and fear and exasperation. "Come out this instant!"

Both boys scrambled into their discarded clothes, and Draco unlocked the door before the deputy headmistress could cast an alohomora. They stood sheepishly, shoulder to shoulder.

"Malfoy. Potter." McGonagall's stern gaze raked them head to toe, eyes lighting on each point of disarray, from half-knotted ties to untied shoes. "The Head Boy and the prefects of this school are expected to set examples for the other students, and by examples I do not mean sneaking into the teacher's lounge after curfew to engage in salacious activities." She held their gazes a moment longer before bursting out, "Merlin's sake, Malfoy, you have your own room! No one will care if you want to shag Potter there. Why are you sneaking around the school?"

"Harry wanted to do it in Professor Snape's chair," Draco said with aplomb.

"Draco!" Harry hissed, and elbowed his boyfriend in the ribs. "I did not!"

McGonagall's lips quirked, however, and a snort escaped her. "Get out of here, both of you."Ê Draco seized Harry's hand and pulled him from the room. "And... have fun," she added as they left. She sounded close to tears.

"Thanks, Professor." Harry slipped an arm around Draco's waist, and together they strolled down to the dungeons and the Head Boy's room, where a warm fire and a bed with green curtains awaited them.

* * *

"Patesco."

Harry grunted as the midwitch's spell wound inside him, dispelling his daydream and curling cold fingers of magic where only warmth had touched before.

"Yes, I know," Susan said. "Nothing they do seems to warm that spell up. Hmm, your circumvenic channel is forming nicely, and the membrane seems thick enough. Finite incantatum."

"Is that good?" he gasped as the charm dissipated, leaving him hollow and tingling and cold.

"Yes. The channel connects your pseudo-uterus to your rectum. It's currently sealed with a thick mucus membrane that protects the baby from bacteria. You can roll over now. The membrane will get thinner as your pregnancy advances, and will break shortly before you give birth."

"And... and how will that happen?" Harry asked, rolling over and allowing Susan to cover his lower half with a sheet. "I mean, how is the baby going to come out?"

"Same way it went in, dear." Susan sounded unduly cheerful as she pushed up his robe, leaving his belly exposed. "You're lucky you didn't get pregnant using Venusian magic. That particular procedure does not provide a natural exit, and you would have needed a ptolemaic."

"A what?"

"Sorry, you were raised by muggles, weren't you? A cesarean section, dear." 

"Can I still have one?" He tried not to sound too hopeful.

"Only if something goes wrong." Susan chuckled, and palpated his tummy, gently stroking around his bulge. "Your pseudo-uterus is well-placed -- you'll carry the baby higher than a woman would, since your hips are narrower. They won't spread until the last possible moment."

"Er, will those stay after the baby comes? The, um, female parts?"

"Goodness, no. You haven't got any 'female parts', Harry. The only thing a pseudo-uterus has in common with a real uterus is that they can both nurture a foetus. It's a pocket of fatty tissue situated between layers of muscle, and most of it will be expelled with the baby. You'll be back to normal afterwards, though you'll be stretched six ways from Sunday." She slid a few pillows behind him, propping him up so he could see his bared stomach. "Let's have a look at the little tyke then. Caro crystallinus."

Harry gasped as his stomach went transparent, skin and muscle and intestine fading to reveal a tiny parody of a person. "Oh my god. My baby's an alien."

Susan laughed again, and had him lay back. "Silly boy. It's supposed to look like that. You want a picture?"

Harry nodded weakly, and the midwitch produced a wizarding instant camera from her bag, took the shot, then waited while the camera gurgled and rattled. After a moment it spat out the photograph, and Susan handed it to Harry.

"Just one more thing before you can get dressed. It's very important that you not have anal intercourse after September. You could rupture the membrane, and cause a miscarriage."

Harry nodded absently, entranced with the lightly pulsing photograph. Every so often the foetus would shift slightly. "Not planning on having sex anyway."

"You can have sex, just no penetration for you. Come to think of it, you probably won't want to be doing the penetrating either, though that is safe enough as long as you're comfortable. I'll let you get dressed now. Come back out to the parlour when you're done, and we'll discuss diet and exercise."

Susan slipped out, and Harry tore himself away from the photograph long enough to get dressed. When he emerged, the midwitch was giving his dietary requirements and exercise suggestions to Lucius, with Zimble taking notes in the corner.

"Ah, Harry. I was just explaining to Mr Malfoy that swimming and walking are the best forms of exercise."

"Flying?"

"I'm afraid not after the third month."

Lucius shot Harry a triumphant look at this pronouncement, to which Harry responded with a raspberry. "I was _in_ my third month when I flew here. I told you it was fine." He sat down on a red velvet settee, clutching his photograph as Susan rummaged in her bag. She produced two books, one on autonomantic male pregnancy and the other on children and regular childbirth, and several bottles and vials.

"I'm going to leave you with some reading material and a nutritional supplement. Luckily your body is producing everything you need so you won't need hormone injections. This is an anti-nauseant if your morning sickness continues, and this one is a generic pain reliever. Don't use any other analgesic potion; most of them contain Grindylow saliva, which can cause birth defects. No alcohol, tobacco, or illegal potions. Small amounts of butterbeer are fine." The midwitch collected her things, and smiled at Harry. "I'll be seeing you every week until the beginning of December, twice a week after that. Feel free to firecall me if you have any questions, Harry. Mr Malfoy." Susan nodded at them and followed Zimble out.

Harry went back to staring at his picture, until he felt Lucius' gaze over his shoulder, prickling on his neck.

"Is that... it?"

Harry nodded, and reluctantly turned the photo so Lucius could see. They shared a rare moment of peace before Lucius cleared his throat.

"I'll leave you to study then."

Any amiability evaporated in an instant. "What's the idea behind this schedule anyway?"

"A boy your age needs discipl--"

"And you think I can't discipline myself? Who do you think made me study while I was growing up? My aunt and uncle didn't care about my grades."

Lucius' eyes narrowed, and Harry saw where Draco had learned the _expression. "Yes and you've proven your maturity by getting yourself pregnant at sixteen--"

"I'm almost seventeen."

"-- and not doing a foot of schoolwork this summer--"

"My things were locked in the cupboard!"

"Really, boy, you defeated Voldemort himself. You can open a closet."

"_Don't_ call me boy! And who do you think you are, ordering me about? I'm not your son."

"But I _am_ your guardian," Lucius snarled, every word cut off with a knife, spoken with razor-like precision. "The Ministry has made your care my responsibility, and on the off chance you actually get away with keeping my grandchild from me, I am going to ensure you have a proper education in order to provide for him."

"This -- is -- my -- baby," Harry shot back. 

"Continue to act like an irresponsible little child and it won't be for long."

Icy threads of fear slithered down Harry's back. Lucius had threatened to fight for the baby before, but the Ministry had already sided with Harry. Hadn't they? "You can't do anything. You're bluffing."

"Really." Lucius raised an eyebrow. "You may be the famous Harry Potter, but the Malfoys are one of the oldest and most powerful wizarding families in Britain, and there is a very large inheritance on the board. Do not be so sure of your chances should this go to the courts." He bowed mockingly, and swept out.

Harry sat trembling for a moment before he realized he was crushing his photograph. He smoothed it out, thinking furiously. He didn't know enough about wizarding law to tell if the threat was legitimate, so he went to the desk and found a sheet of parchment.

_Dear Hermione,_

I know we haven't spoken in a few months, and I'm not sure if you still count yourself my friend. I know how much Ginny meant to you, so I understand if you burn this letter and never speak to me again. But I will always be your friend, whether or not you forgive me.

You must have seen the papers by now. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was pregnant myself, but you were at St Mungo's the last few weeks of school, and then I was at the Dursleys' without an owl. I'm in trouble, Hermione, and it's getting worse. Yesterday a Ministry wizard took me and my cousin away. I don't know what happened to Dudley, but the Ministry turned me over to Lucius Malfoy. He's threatening to try for custody of the baby. Can he do that? He says I'm too young, but I'm old enough to have sex, and the Ministry seems willing to give me a chance. Please help me if you can. 

Yours,

Harry

It was not how he had planned on feeling Hermione out, but it would have to do. He wished the hospital had released her before the year ended, given him a chance to prevent the distance from settling, given her a chance to attend the string of funerals. She and Ginny had only just started dating, and she never got the chance to say goodbye.

He rolled up the letter, tied it off with one of the silver ribbons in the stationery set, and marched for the door before he could rethink his plan.

The door wouldn't budge.

_That utter bastard._

Swearing violently in Latin, Harry stormed into his bedroom, and ransacked it until he found his broom in the garderobe. "Zimble!"

The house-elf popped in, eyes wide and ears down, hands twisting the hem of his pillow sham. "MisterHarryPotterSir?"

"Do these windows open?"

"Yes, Sir. I is opening them for-- Aiieeee! Sir is not to be flying! Madame Saddler said! Sir! Come baaaaack..."

Zimble's shrieks faded as Harry shot out the window, the wind rushing around him. He never felt more alive than in midair, defying ground and sky and all the open space around him. He had a sudden urge to fly for the horizon and keep going until he ran out of sky, but good sense smothered it, and he landed not ten feet from the house. Grumbling, he set off to find the owlery.

After an exhausting trek which ended in three semi-serious bites, Harry sent the letter winging off with grumpy barn owl. He was tired from the long walk, and very tempted to cruise back at a low altitude on his broom, but as he didn't know the reasons for the restriction, he decided not to risk it. 

_See. I'm responsible._

He spotted a pond behind the owlery, set in an artfully contrived country garden. It looked like a stiff imitation of the Weasley's back yard, with the rocks set a little too regularly, and the willows trimmed to even lengths.

He wandered over, broom floating in his wake, and flopped down on the grass. He was not impressed with the Malfoy gardens. They felt forced and artificial for all their beauty.

"'So twice five miles of fertile ground with walls and towers were girdled round. And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; and here were forests ancient as the hills, enfolding sunny spots of greenery.'" [1] He fell silent, not able to recall further lines in sequence, and aware that an audience had crept upon him.

"That was... stirring."

"I didn't write it."

The snake tipped her head at him, polite confusion written in the curve of her neck.

"I was repeating the words of another," he explained.

"Ah. It is a pleasant thing, nonetheless. Worth repeating." She seemed to deem him safe enough, and emerged from the crevices to curl atop the rocks, still some distance away. "Have you seen any owls about today?" 

"Not outside. But I haven't looked."

She gave him a dismissive flick of the tongue. "No. You would not need to, large, gangly creature such as you are. Ah well, the day is too pleasant for hiding, and the shadows are cold."

Harry leaned back on his hands and stared at the sky, dutifully watching for owls though he thought his own presence would warn them off. Perhaps the snake thought so as well. He didn't quite know how to carry a conversation with a serpent, as the only ones he'd ever spoken to were either busy escaping or trying to kill him. "So, er, come here often?"

"I live here." She arranged herself on the rock, fussily shifting her body to get the maximum amount of sunlight with the minimum amount of exposure to hypothetical talons.

"I'm Harry."

Again, the tilted head.

"It's my name -- how we tell each other apart. My kind can't... taste people."

"How odd. I can taste you, so I have no need of these names."

He wondered if Voldemort had such trouble explaining the concept to Nagini. "What should I call you then?"

"Whatever you like."

"Do you have any suggestions?"

She thought a moment. "Harry."

He laughed, startling her. "That's my name. Chose something else."

"I don't know any other names."

He considered her, a common garter snake, striped brown and pale green, perhaps two feet long -- it was hard to tell with her curled up like that -- and entirely ordinary. "Xanadu," he said, smiling, only it came out in parseltongue.

"Sthanadu," she repeated. "It is..."

He could see her struggling to comment on something she had no experience with, and decided to rescue her. "It is from the poem -- the words worth repeating."

"Stirring then." Sthanadu looked rather smug, and spread her coils a little farther. "Have you prepared your nest?"

"Pardon?"

"For your young. I will probably deposit mine by the pond, where there is food. Though the owls will likely eat them all anyway." She cast a glare in the direction of the owlery. "Do you lay eggs?"

"No." Harry decided not to question how she knew he was pregnant. Her tongue was probably telling her all sorts of things about him. "And we don't build nests or leave our young. We feed them until they are fully grown. Protect them from owls."

Sthanadu tipped her head again. "What sort of monstrous owl would prey on something large as you?"

Harry laughed; he laughed until he cried and Sthanadu had lost interest and gone back to basking. "It was a metaphor," he said at last. "We have our own types of predators." He glanced at the house, and the snake followed his gaze.

"It's hollow, is it not?"

"Mm-hmm."

"It must be a good den."

"Somewhat. I'm lucky to have it, I suppose."

They sat in silence for a moment, Harry braiding stalks of grass, Sthanadu shifting lazily in the sun, always one eye on the sky. He lay back, closed his eyes, the cool, fresh breeze playing erratically against his skin, feeling a slow, lazy roll in his midsection...

And then a long, gentle caress, as though Draco had run a finger down his belly as they lay sated in a jumble of their school robes and towels from the locker room behind the quidditch pitch... only from the inside.

Sthanadu's head came up, tongue flashing, tasting his startlement and ready to bolt.

"It's all right," he whispered. "My young is restless. He's moving." _Moving inside me._

There was a short silence, then Sthanadu lowered her head. "I can see why you guard them," she said, "if you only have one at a time."

Harry chuckled at her unspoken disdain at such inefficiency.

* * *

_[1] From 'Kubla Khan', by Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

Note: Sorry about the snake. It's a bit cliche, but I've never written a snake into any of my HP fics, and damnit, it's my story. :P 


	5. He Saw the Great Mystery

Note: Thanks to Coro for pointing out that Draco could not be Head Boy in sixth year. This is what I get for working without a beta while trying to write 27 fics at once. Just be glad Draco hasn't actually shown up, asking why Lucius changed the wards. It does work both ways though -- at one point, I almost had the midwitch show up in Domestication & Training. O_o

* * *

5. He Saw the Great Mystery

_And I will let the dead leave  
And let the dead roam the earth  
And they shall eat the living.  
The dead will overwhelm all the living!_

_Ishtar to Anu  
Gilgamesh_

Lucius said nothing at all when Harry trudged in at ten past two, grass-stained and towing his broom, but the flinty gaze brought an unaccountable blush to his cheeks, and he kept his head down as he trekked to his rooms. He expected Zimble to be in hysterics, but the house elf stayed silent as he brought a light lunch and laid out a change of clothes. By the jeans and tee shirt laid out on the bed, Harry surmised Zimble was resigned to his sub-par wardrobe, at least temporarily.

The house elves brought a hasty lunch of soup and sandwiches after Harry had conveyed a desire for more of the bitter, brown stuff they'd fed him the day before; it turned out to be Marmite, which Dudley ate by the jar, but Harry had never tasted. It was awful, but nonetheless unaccountably appealing, and the house elves seemed to share Aunt Petunia's opinions on its benefits to growing boys. Harry didn't mind. He had only rated peanut butter at the Dursleys.

At half past two, Zimble led him downstairs to one of the sitting rooms, where Lucius waited with a tall, thin man with a ridiculously thin moustache. The man, whom Lucius introduced simply as Apollonius, gasped when Harry arrived, presumably at the state of his clothes.

"Yes, I can see the emergency; your house-elves dress better." Apollonius didn't bother to lower his voice. "Let's see you walk, Mr Potter."

"What?"

"Walk! Walk! I want to see what passes for grace in your steps so I can correct it."

Feeling more self-conscious than his scar ever made him, Harry walked around the room at various paces, sitting, standing, and stretching as the tailor demanded.

"Hmm, takes small steps -- no long robes, he'll look like a woman. Tendency to slouch -- no round collars. Marquelle! Measurements! Up on the stool, Mr Potter."

Harry climbed onto the stool as ordered, but nearly fell off as a small, fantastic winged creature zipped past him, a measuring tape fluttering in its wake. It never held still long enough for Harry to get a good look, but he had the impression of many bright colours, and feathers, and glitter, and very large, very violet eyes. It seemed to vanish whenever it stopped moving.

"Swatches, Marquelle."

The creature dropped the measuring tape and produced small pieces of fabric -- from where Harry could not tell, as it moved too quickly -- and proceeded to swirl them past Harry's face in rapid succession.

"No, yes, yes, no, yes, possibly, no, yes -- oh great Jupiter, stay away from warm reds, Mr Potter. Yes, yes, no, only at casual settings, yes. Thank you, Marquelle. Get down now, Mr Potter, I'm done with you." Apollonius turned to Lucius. "He's fortunate in colouring, and should be able to wear whatever palette is in fashion. I'll have an emergency set delivered within the hour and a preliminary wardrobe in the morning. The rest will arrive at the end of the week." He bowed floridly. "It is, as always, a pleasure to serve you."

Lucius nodded, accepting his due, and waved a hand in dismissal. Nilly appeared to escort the tailor out.

"What did you tell him to make?" Harry asked, curiosity overcoming sulkiness.

"A proper wardrobe."

"And how much is this going to cost?"

"More than you have in your vault. You couldn't afford a consultation with Apollonius, let alone buy so much as a sock off him. But never mind the cost; I insisted so I will pay for it. You obviously can't dress yourself."

"There's nothing wrong with my clothes." Other than being Dudley's. "Some people have to make do with hand-me-downs." Except the Dursleys _didn't_. They could have easily afforded new clothes for Harry. Harry could have bought his own, but the Dursleys might question the source, and besides, he had no where to wear them. Dudley would ruin anything nice, and Hogwarts had uniforms, so he would outgrow any clothes he bought before he could get any use from them.

Lucius observed him for a moment, and Harry had a feeling the man saw right past his defensive half-truths. "I had an owl from Spiggleworth this morning. If the investigation continues the way it has, the Ministry will likely press charges against your aunt and uncle."

"They didn't abuse me," Harry said. His heart sped.

"The WCW seems to think otherwise."

"Why can't everyone just stay out of my life?"

"Because you appear to be mishandling it. Tell me, how would you have felt if you'd fallen from that roof? Would it be your uncle's fault for sending you up there alone and without proper equipment? Or is it yours for letting a boorish muggle--"

"Don't you say anything about my family!" Hands clenched at his sides, Harry glared at Lucius. "You don't know anything about them. They took me when no one else wanted me, even though they don't like wizards. And maybe they were a bit nasty to me, but they were afraid, and besides, it was a lot better than you would have done for a muggle child in your care." Harry turned and stormed out, peace from his afternoon with Sthanadu shattered.

"Potter."

He stopped at the hall.

"If your home life was not so bad, are you planning on locking my grandchild in a cupboard?"

Harry fled.

* * *

The clothes arrived at half past four: loose charcoal trousers, a shirt of deep-sapphire silk with gold lion-head buttons, and a set of hand-stitched underclothes. They were almost -- not quite -- muggle in style. The buttons blinked, and occasionally yawned.

Harry left them in the box, and eventually Zimble put them away. He tried to write his Charms essay, and failing at that, went back to the court of Hatshepsut, but he had trouble concentrating, and all the strange names melded together in his mind until he lost the thread of the narrative.

At seven o'clock, tea arrived; the elves had kept track of Harry's favourite foods, and he discovered Marmite did not taste as good on asparagus.

At half past seven, Zimble appeared to take the dishes. "Is MisterHarryPo... Harry wanting anything else, sir?"

Harry shook his head, and stared out the window. He could just see the owlry, and wondered if Sthanadu had a safe den for the night, or if she would hunt the frogs by the pond.

"Will Harry be attending the recital? Miss Devereaux has come up from Folkrose," Zimble added quickly, and Harry sighed, cursing Lucius for involving someone else in their little war.

"Tell Mr Malfoy I'll be down at eight," he said, and went to find the not-quite-muggle clothes.

* * *

Hyacinth Devereaux had a mop of curly blonde hair swept into a sheepish-looking pile atop her head, and one of the deepest voices Harry had ever heard from a woman. According to Zimble, she taught Latin and History of Magic in the village's primary school, and directed the children's choir. Also according to Zimble, the poem she would recite, Gilgamesh, was one of the oldest surviving works of literature and had only recently been restored to completeness due to a breakthrough in restorative charms, about which Harry knew nothing.

When he arrived in the India Zephyr room, Lucius inspected him with a subtle, scathing glance -- and, Harry suspected, found him wanting. He sat in the other chair -- chocolate-coloured satin, surprisingly comfortable -- and smiled at Miss Devereaux.

She nodded curtly back, and Harry kicked himself for allowing Zimble to con him into attending, thinking the poor girl a simple young villager. Devereaux was easily Lucius' age, and clearly had a Malfoy or two in her recent ancestry.

_Probably his cousin or sister or something,_ Harry thought as she tilted her nose in the air and began the recital. After a few minutes he forgot his spite, and after a few more, lost himself in the story. It was nice not to think, to stand back and watch someone else make a mess of his life.

Devereaux must have Charmed her throat, for she spoke of Gilgamesh and Enkil, their rocky beginning, their battle with Humbaba, Enkil's death, and Gilgamesh's quest for immortality for over two hours without taking a drink or resting her voice. Afterwards, she accepted Lucius' mild praise and Harry's inelegant thanks as though they had thrown roses at her feet.

_Definitely a Malfoy,_ Harry thought as she took her leave.

Lucius caught his gaze, and raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Harry snorted. "Gilgamesh was a selfish, arrogant prick."

"Indeed. And who was alive in the end?"

"I wasn't aware this was a lesson."

"Life is a lesson, Mr Potter."

"All right. Then I guess I learned Enkidu was a naive doormat for letting Gilgamesh talk him into doing all those pointless things."

"Hmm. I thought it rather clever of them to ally themselves. One should always attempt to be friendly with those who can match one's strength."

Harry thought of the way Voldemort had screamed when he died, the way Draco had shuddered as he confessed the real reason his father had sent him back to Hogwarts halfway through Christmas break. "Truces are all well and good, but sometimes the price of compromise is too high. Good night, Mr Malfoy."

Lucius did not answer, and Harry hurried away.

* * *

The marble was hard on his feet as he climbed the stairs. He still had not replaced his battered trainers, and the scuffed shoes lurking under the hems of Apollonius-made trousers were perhaps what caused him to fail Lucius' earlier inspection.

It was only when he acknowledged the portraits' whispering that he realized he had taken the wrong staircase, and by that time he was deep in the west wing. He stopped, suddenly aware of the hostility around him, and apprehensive of the manor's foibles.

"Zimble?" he called softly. "Zimble? Nilly?" He paused. "Bibbly?"

No one appeared to rescue him, and he wondered if there was some trick to summoning house elves, a gesture which every wizard except Harry knew, like summoning the Knight Bus. Feeling a bit silly, he waved his hands around, which only resulted in a snort from the nearest portrait.

"Er, excuse me? Could you tell me how to get to the St George suite?"

The portrait, an elderly man with the Malfoy chin, sniffed and turned his back, muttering about commoners in the manor.

Harry resisted the urge to blow a raspberry at him, and stomped off down the corridor. From the outside the two wings looked like they met at the back, and Harry decided to take his chances rather than let Lucius catch him leaving the west wing.

Eventually he turned a corner, and sensing he was in the back corridor, sped his steps, despite the ever-increasing hostility from the portraits. Past a tapestry of a woman with snakes for hair, the portraits ended, but Harry slowed his steps nonetheless, feeling the air thicken. His breath struggled for passage through his throat.

A few more steps brought him to a set of carved teak doors, a curious line of silver sealing the crack between them. A set of runes marched down the line, pulsing, yet he could not say why he thought that, for they neither glowed nor moved. There were no handles.

Curious, he laid his fingers on the wood, startled at the chill. The pulse sped, and his ears -- or some other sense -- caught a sound beyond the doors. He turned his head to hear better, leaned in.

"MisterHarryPotterSir!"

He leapt back and spun around, heart racing, breath returning. "Zimble!"

"Sir is in the west wing! Sir is not supposed to be in the family quarters. I is getting into so much trouble. I is a bad, bad elf." Zimble, forbidden to harm himself, wrung his hands together.

"This is the family wing?" All thoughts of the strange doors fled. "Are Draco's rooms nearby?"

Zimble nodded warily.

"Show me."

The house elf threw a nervous glance at the doors, then at the corridor behind Harry. "Sir follows me," he whispered, and turned and trotted down the hall, Harry on his heels.

The next door was another set identical to the last, but for the two bronze dragon-headed handles and the lack of a rune-warded silver seal. "What's in here?" he asked.

"The master's old rooms." Zimble hurried past without slowing.

"Mr Malfoy doesn't sleep there anymore?"

"No, Master is in the Macedonia suite now. This way."

They stopped before another set of teak doors, less heavily carved, but complete with dragon handles. Zimble opened them, and snapped his fingers. The room flooded with light.

Draco's 'room' was a suite a little larger than Harry's, decorated in green and bronze, with occasional blue and yellow accents. Harry crept across the rug, wide eyes taking in everything: the drapes half-open, showing nothing but darkness; the book laid out a table, a page marker dangling over the side; the glass case holding hundreds of dragon sculptures of assorted size, colour, and material, some animated, others not; a chess set left out, though the pieces still slumbered in their box.

He peeked into the first room. It had a sofa instead of a bed, and bookcases lining the walls. In the corner a dummy wore a Slytherin quidditch uniform, a Skydive 600 hung neatly beside it.

Harry shifted his weight, beginning to feel nauseous, though thus far he had had little trouble with 'morning' sickness. He was certain Draco's uniform and broom had been at Hogwarts when he died. The thought made Harry's breath stick in his throat once more, and he hurried to the other bedroom.

The bed, a massive four-poster, was made. The sheets were turned down.

Clothes -- from school uniforms to formal robes -- hung neatly in the wardrobe, shoes lined up below.

A steamer trunk sat open, scrolls of schoolwork stuffed inside a cauldron, right beside mostly-empty jars of potions ingredients, an astrolabe, and a dead herbology project.

A quills and ink stood on the desk, ready for use. A haphazard bundle of parchment lay next to them, chilling him as he recognized the handwriting on the top sheet as his own.

* * *

_/Astronomy tower. Midnight./_

_"Ron."_

_"What?"_

_"Pass this to Draco."_

_Ron paused in his resentful mangling of his mandrake roots. "Do I look like a post owl?"_

_Harry narrowed his eye, and tried to gauge the level of temper by the depth of Ron's scowl. "Please?"_

_"I don't care if the Ministry believed Malfoy's dad. He still a Death Eater, and Malfoy's still a bastard. I don't know why you keep trying to make friends with him. He still treats us like dirt."_

_"Ron."_

_"I don't know why I bother talking to you about him. Fuck. If Snape catches me, you lend me your cloak for a month."_

_"A month!"_

_"Problem, Mr Potter? Does the sight of mandrake roots fill you with the uncontrollable urge to shout in my classroom and disrupt the few students who actually have a chance of learning something?"_

_"No, sir. Sorry, sir."_

_"You should be. But since you're not -- yet -- twenty points from Gryffindor."_

_Harry winced and went back to dicing the roots, but after an interminable five minutes, slid the note over to Ron. Ron took it, and when Snape turned to help Pansy Parkinson, tossed it onto Blaise Zabini's desk._

_Another shuffle and a hissed conversation, this time from the Slytherin side, and the note landed back next to Ron's cauldron. Harry took it eagerly._

_~Lemming. Everyone goes to the astronomy tower at midnight. It's worse than Zonko's on a Hogsmeade weekend.~_

_Harry snorted, avoided Snape's glare, and scribbled his answer._

_/What, you don't want an audience when you suck me off?/_

_The note made another circuit._

_~Excuse me, but who said I'd be sucking you off?~_

_/I did./_

_~Fuck off.~_

_/That's an even better idea. Prefects bathroom?/_

_~Too cold. And I think Macmillan has a recording charm set on the bathtub.~_

_/Owlry?/_

_~Blech. Too smelly.~_

_/Greenhouse?/_

_~With all those sentient plants watching? Think harder, Potter.~_

_/My room?/_

_The note was a long time returning. ~Your room. As in deep inside enemy territory.~_

_/Problem? It's private. It's warm, smells fine, and has no plants to watch you getting your ass fucked. And it has a bed. A nice comfortable bed./_

_~It's in Gryffindor, you prat! And if anyone's ass is getting fucked it's yours.~_

_/I'll sneak you in./ Harry paused, quill hovering over the parchment. /And you can even fuck me. Bring your clothes. We'll leave for class from there in the morning, so we can lay in my bed and you can stuff your prick inside me all night long. /_

_He was watching Draco's face when the note made it to the Slytherin side, and so caught the hitch in his breath, the slow flush creeping over the pale face. Draco looked straight ahead, eyes on the chalkboard, and nodded once, slowly, and tucked the note into his bag. Harry had to shift in his seat and tug his robes to accommodate his sudden erection. Somehow, his bedroom seemed far more thrilling than anywhere else they had messed around, and thoughts of midnight crowded his head._

_"Mr Potter." Snape's voice at his ear made him jump. "Detention."_

_A quick check proved his potion was progressing without incident. "What for?"_

_A patented Snape dramatic pause. "Why, for playing with yourself in public."_

_Harry realized his hand was still in his lap, and flushed as the rest of the class burst into laughter._

_Snape smirked and swept away to check Neville's lack of progress, and Ron leaned over and hissed, "You weren't, were you?"_

_Harry shook his head, but could not help looking across the aisle. Draco was laughing along with his house mates, but the heat of his gaze melted Harry's skin and made the laughter sting a little less._

_Ron followed his gaze, frowned, and added his mangled roots to his cauldron. "I don't know what the hell was in that note, but next time, leave me out of it."_

_Harry didn't answer, and silently helped Ron clean up as his cauldron overboiled._

* * *

Harry set the note down, recalling the detention he'd gotten that day, and how it hadn't stopped him from sneaking Draco into Gryffindor afterwards. They had spent the night having sex -- making love, Harry corrected himself -- and even after neither could wring another erection out of their teenage hormones, they kissed and petted until early morning, and both had been late for class.

He hadn't realized Draco kept the stupid note, and he pawed through the rest of the papers, looking for others. Potions formulas, a transfiguration essay -- which Draco had borrowed from Harry in order to copy, but later claimed he'd lost -- an unsent and rather nasty reply to an apparent love-letter from Pansy, a doodle of Snape in dress which Harry vaguely remembered giving Draco.

In the middle of the pile, he discovered an unfinished letter addressed to him.

Hardly daring to breath, Harry wondered if he should read it now or save it, but before could decide, a door slammed in the outer room, and Lucius Malfoy appeared in the doorway.

"How dare you."

Harry backed away, familiar with that deadly quiet tone.

"What gives you the right to go through my son's things?"

"I--"

"Get out!" A bedside lamp exploded, spraying blue glass, and Harry flinched, covering his face with his arms. "Get out, now!" The windows rattled and one pane shattered, and a breeze flew in to chase Harry as he bolted.

Lucius followed, lips pulled into a snarl. "Don't ever set foot in here again, you filthy little whore."

"I'm sorry," Harry blurted, reaching the corridor.

"Shut up! It should have been you. It should have been you." The display case erupted, and dragons of all breeds and sizes and colours crashed down into fragments of glass and ceramic and crystal and stone, stopping the storm cold.

Lucius stared at the mess with a curious statement of fragile horror. He looked as though he would laugh, or scream, or cry, or Avada Kedavra the nearest living thing.

Harry chose not to risk it, and bolted down the hallway, not caring where he was going. He would have run right out of the house, if not for the darkness, the baby, and the lack of places to go.

Lost before he started, he ran without thought, passing doors and cross-corridors and portraits who yelled at him. He knocked over a bust of some relative and it shrieked before it smashed against the floor. He ran until his sides ached and an unpleasant tightening in his stomach told him he was about to be sick.

A laundry cart sat off to one side of the corridor, and the linens looked dirty, and he had no time to find a toilet, so he clung to the side and heaved, bile burning his throat, pulse slowly calming.

When his stomach relaxed, he found his legs too shaky to go far, and as he had no idea how to get back to his room -- and no urge to be anywhere Malfoy would think to look for him -- he squeezed past the cart and tottered down the narrow hall. Unadorned walls, inadequate lighting, and low ceilings combined with the laundry cart to make him think he had found the functional part of the manor. Only a few more steps, and he spotted something that made his heart speed.

A steep, narrow set of stairs; under them, a door, ajar.

Tentative fingers pushed it fully open, and he saw boxes of Mrs Tiggleminder's laundry soap, a basket of magic mending supplies, and neat stacks of old or damaged household linen. Pillowcases. Tablecloths. Drapes. Towels.

_It's the house elves' clothing,_ he thought, and glanced behind.

Slipped inside.

Shut the door. 


	6. The Art of Avoidance

6. The Art of Avoidance   
It felt like the middle of the night when the door opened. Harry blinked in the sudden light lancing past the tall figure, an expressionless silhouette which reached down and scooped him up. Harry pressed his face into Malfoy's shoulder, off-balance from the unaccustomed height and the swaying sensation of being carried.  
  
Then he realized he *was* being carried.  
  
"Put me down."  
  
Malfoy said nothing, and Harry grabbed a fistful of conveniently long hair. "Put. Me. Down."  
  
Wordlessly, Malfoy set him on his feet, and held his arm until he regained his equilibrium. "I... apologize, Mr Potter. Madam Saddler warned me not to upset you unduly."  
  
Harry's lips thinned, holding in the words he really wanted to say. Several incidences made sudden sense: Lucius backing down, not throwing his rebellious escape through the window at him. "No need to apologize, Mr Malfoy. If it's all right with you, I'll just stay the night and be gone in the morning."  
  
"You're not leaving."  
  
"Ah, so that whole 'Get out, you filthy whore' thing was French for 'Why, Harry, are you lost? Do you need help back to your rooms?'"  
  
"I did apologize for upsetting you."  
  
"I don't *want* an apology, I want out of here."  
  
"Impossible, Mr Potter." Malfoy took his arm, and led him down the dimly-lit corridor. "You are my ward, and you have no where else to go."  
  
Harry tried to reclaim his arm, but Malfoy was stronger. "I'm going to stay at the Leaky Cauldron until Sirius is free."  
  
"Really? And how do you propose to get by in a magical society without the freedom to do magic?"  
  
"Then I'll rent a room in muggle London."  
  
Malfoy stopped short and pulled Harry around to face him. "Indeed. With this to carry around?" A large palm spread over his belly, engulfing the bulge entirely. They stared at each other for a long moment. "Your plans are ill-considered. The Ministry believes this to be the best place for you."  
  
"The Ministry also left me at Privet Drive for sixteen bloody years," Harry said, then closed his mouth before he could contradict his earlier defence further.  
  
Malfoy merely raised a brow at his hypocrisy and set off again, dragging Harry along. They walked in silence until they reached Harry's door, where Malfoy released him, and bowed. "Good night, Mr Potter."  
  
Harry said nothing, and slipped inside his luxury prison.  
  
* * * * *   
  
No more schedules arrived, and Harry was left to fill his own time. Madam Saddler was not due for another six days, so Harry spent some time going through the books she had left, combing them for answers to some of his questions.  
  
*Male Pregnancy the Natural Way*, the book on autonomantic pregnancy, was the more helpful of the two, and the more he read the more thankful he was that his body went and decided to have a child on its own. The Venusian method looked painful, complicated, and difficult, and it had a low success rate. Autonomancy, on the other hand, almost always progressed problem-free, even more so than many female pregnancies.  
  
Broom-riding, he discovered, put abnormal pressure on the circumvenic channel, and could prevent it from forming properly -- which could cause serious tears during labour. He vowed to lock his broom in the garderobe and not look at it until January. The book reassured him on the matter of the actual birth however; the tissue became more elastic near the end of pregnancy, and would retain elasticity even after the child was born, making anal sex more comfortable. Harry grinned to himself, staring at the slowly revolving illustration, but the smile faded as he wondered if he would have any partners in the future. Much as he disliked the idea, he was still alive, and Draco was not. He didn't want to be celibate the rest of his life, yet he couldn't imagine being with anyone but Draco.  
  
A cold, dull pain spread from his chest, and he set the book down, and curled up on the chaise lounge. He thought of Lucius' hand covering his belly, and felt ill.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The next few days passed in a quiet haze. Harry attempted to send Zimble after the letter in Draco's room, then spent three hours calming the house elf down; it seemed Harry was not the only one forbidden to touch Draco's things. After that, he stayed in his suite, knowing he would be tempted to retrieve the letter if he wandered around the manor.  
  
The house elves were jumpy, and Harry wondered what Malfoy had done to them for 'allowing' him into the west wing. True to Zimble's promise, they had hung curtains around the bed, stringing them from thin silver chains attached to the ceiling. He didn't have the heart to tell them the material was too gauzy to bring him any comfort, but after the third night in the trundle bed, he noticed the space between the beds had been widened, making it easier to crawl in and out.  
  
Schoolwork, *Male Pregnancy the Natural Way*, and the court of Hatshepsut filled his time, and he broke the long days of reading with walks down to the pond behind the owlry. Sometimes he met Sthanadu, and sometimes he did not, but he found her company amusing and looked forward to her unintentional humour. He thought she was growing fond of him in return, if snakes were capable of such emotion. At the very least, he kept the owls away.  
  
On Wednesday, after Madam Saddler had come and gone, leaving him with a new photograph of his slightly larger alien and a scolding for his eating habits, an owl arrived for him.  
  
He spilled ink all over his potions essay, and the owl bit him twice, but he got his hands on the letter. "And stay away from the snakes by the pond!" Harry shouted after the bird as it left. With trembling hands, he unrolled the scroll.   
  
*Dear Harry,  
  
According my research, Malfoy will only have a chance for custody if he can prove you would be an unfit parent. He'll have a better chance of that if you drop out of school, so I recommend you finish your final year, and make sure you have a career in mind for afterwards. I suggest you retain a lawyer just in case. You'll need to arrange care for the baby for the last two school terms, and provide all the necessities. You should talk to Dumbledore about your living arrangements, and find out whether it would be possible for you to live off campus or bring the baby into the dorm.  
  
As for our friendship, I understand intellectually that Ginny's death was not your fault, however, I need time to deal with the fact that you chose Draco over Ginny. Please don't owl me again; I'll contact you when I'm ready.  
  
Congratulations on the baby.  
  
Hermione*  
  
Parchment tore beneath his fingers, hands crushing the letter as some unknown force crushed his chest. "How can you *think* that, Hermione?" he whispered before his throat closed.  
  
*"Get out of here, Harry!"  
  
"I'm not leaving you." Gryffindor's sword heavy in his hand, a spray of silver sparks burning his skin.  
  
"She'll be back soon."  
  
Back with her hissing laughter and her boneless, half-naked, *stolen* vessel, and the spell she would cast so carelessly and make Draco's pale face turn purple, flesh swelling, eyes bulging, nails gouging the smooth neck he so liked to kiss and there was not a damn thing Harry could do to stop it because it had already happened.  
  
"Too late, little dragon."   
  
Hissed in parseltongue. No countercurse to the spell that came next, but he should have stepped in front of it, or struck her the moment she stepped in the door, or left her to die in the chamber below the school so long ago.  
  
And he was *glad* she was dead, and maybe that was why everyone hated him.*  
  
"Potter!" A slap snapped his eyes open, and he gasped, Malfoy standing over him, a dark scowl marring his face.  
  
"You hit me." Harry's hand drifted up to touch his own cheek.  
  
"You were hyperventilating. Zimble had to fetch me from a fire conference."  
  
"You hit me."  
  
"I could have let you continue until you passed out."  
  
Harry roused enough to glare. "Don't you have a fire conference to get back to?"  
  
"I cancelled it." Malfoy paused, tilting his head in the same way Sthanadu did before she asked a question she knew Harry would laugh at. "I need to visit the Ministry this afternoon. I don't suppose you would want to go."  
  
Thoughts of lawyers and custody leapt again, and he crushed the mangled letter from Hermione. "What for?"  
  
Malfoy stood so abruptly the hem of his robe briefly overcame gravity. "I was under the impression you were close to your godfather, Potter. Forgive the misapprehension."  
  
"Sirius?" Harry also stood, and the parchment fell, forgotten. "What's Sirius doing at the Ministry?"  
  
"Awaiting his trial like a good little convicted murderer. If you're coming, be down in the India Zephyr room at two o'clock. We shall attempt to take the floo."   
  
Malfoy swept out, but Harry barely noticed. He ran back to his bedroom, which was engulfed by a swarm of house elves storing away the piles of clothing which had arrived from Apollonius.  
  
"I need something nice to wear," he blurted. Zimble squealed, and promptly produced a bronze and black dress robe. "No, no... Look, what's the most *casual* clothing I have?"  
  
After a minor debate with Rollie, Zimble laid out a pair of tan leggings and long, deep-red, tunic-style shirt. Harry sighed, then shucked his jeans, heedless of the bulging eyes on him, and scrambled into the clothes. He let Zimble cinch a belt low on his hips, then stamped into the boots Apollonius had included in the shipment. He paused at the mirror, and almost laughed at himself; all he needed was a scabbard to complete the outfit.  
  
That brought thoughts of Gryffindor's sword, and he lost his smile.  
  
Ready to go, Harry checked the clock on the wall; the hand with his face on it -- the only hand -- sat at 'early'. "Zimble, what time is it?"  
  
"It is time for Sir to be--"  
  
"Zimble, if I were to look at a muggle clock, what time would it say?"  
  
"Four minutes past one, Sir."  
  
Harry rattled his fingers on the desk, then grabbed the two photographs of his alien, and headed for the India Zephyr room to wait.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry had not seen Sirius since waking in the infirmary five weeks ago. He knew Sirius had turned himself in at some point after the Dark Lord's fall, on the condition that he receive a trial. What he hadn't realized was that Sirius would wait for his trial to begin from the Ministry's prison cells below the Magical Law Enforcement building.  
  
Harry stomped after the guard Malfoy had left him with. The long row of cells with their metal doors gave him chills, and he wondered how like Azkaban it was and how Sirius was coping. "I don't know why you have him down here. Sirius *wants* a trial."  
  
"Sorry, Mr Potter." The guard grimaced and ducked his head. "He's escaped before, so we've got to consider him a flight risk. MLE policy." The guard paused, opened his mouth, closed it, then spun around and knocked on one of the doors. "Visitor, Mr Black."  
  
Harry pushed past the guard, and was struck motionless by the light and warmth. Sirius, curled up in a worn armchair, looked up from the book on his lap. The door snicked shut behind him.  
  
"Harry!" The book fell, and Sirius bounded over, stopping just before manhandling Harry. "Is it true?"  
  
A grin burst over Harry's face, and he impulsively dragged his godfather's hand to his stomach. The bulge pulsed.  
  
"Oh my God. Harry, that's... oh my God."  
  
"You're not angry with me?"  
  
Sirius drew back, then embraced Harry, and pulled him over to the bed -- a soft four-poster. "Of course I'm not mad. I admit it took me a few days to adjust, and I probably *should* be mad, with you still in school and all... but it's a *baby*." There being only one chair, they sat on the edge of the bed and Sirius pulled Harry into the crook of his arm. "I remember when James told me Lily was pregnant... I went out a bought a training broom and a tiny set of quidditch robes the very same day. I think I was more excited than James."  
  
Harry laughed, and sat up a bit; the angle made him dizzy. "They seem to be taking care of you." He glanced around the small room with its large rug, armchair, table laid out with a chess set, short bookcase stocked with reading material, and a brazier holding a fire.  
  
"Better than some of the places I've lived. The food's terrible, but Willy out there sneaks me care packages from his wife. She even made me a scarf, just in case ye olde dank cell got cold." Sirius pointed to a multi-coloured monstrosity in wool draped over the back of the chair. It looked more like a shawl than a scarf. "How about you? I bet Mrs Weasley is fussing over you."  
  
There was a silence before comprehension set in. "I'm not staying with the Weasleys."  
  
"Why not? They can't hold what happened against you."  
  
Harry swallowed hard. Sirius had been there. Sirius knew. "They... It's too soon. They don't need me there reminding them."  
  
Sirius nodded, but tightened his arm around Harry. "Are you staying with the Grangers then?"  
  
Harry shook his head. "The Ministry thought I needed to be with a wizard family. S'part of why they took me away from the Dursleys. Too many instances of autonomancy, they said."  
  
"If those muggle relatives of yours weren't such... such *muggles* about things... Never mind. Where have you been staying? You're certainly looking well cared for."  
  
Harry bit back a sharp retort; defending the Dursleys to Malfoy was one thing, but Sirius was his godfather. "I'm staying with Lucius Malfoy."  
  
"*Malfoy*?" Sirius jerked around, gaze sweeping Harry in a new wave of assessment. "Tell me what happened and how he's been treating you."  
  
Grateful to have a friendly ear at last, Harry poured out the tale, from his ill-considered visit to Malfoy Manor to Lucius' peace offering that morning. Sirius listened without interrupting, then sat back, eyes distant.  
  
"At least Malfoy got you away from the Dursleys."  
  
It was the last thing Harry had expected to hear from his godfather. "You're not worried he might take the baby away?"  
  
"He can try. Listen, Harry, I know how much you hate your fame, but in this case it's an asset. You're *Harry Potter*. If Malfoy even tries, half the wizarding world will jump to your defence. You killed Voldemort twice by the age of sixteen. You can handle being a father at seventeen."  
  
"Thanks, Sirius," Harry whispered.  
  
"Which reminds me. It's your birthday next week, and I'm stuck in here. I might be able to con a scarf from Mrs Carmichael..."  
  
Harry smiled. Sirius always knew what to say. "You don't have to get me anything. Just don't forget to come and get me the minute you're free."  
  
"You'll probably be in school by then."  
  
"What?"  
  
"My trial date can't be set until the Office of Forensic Enchantments is done examining Pettigrew's body. Ms Juniper -- that's my lawyer -- thinks the soonest we can hope for is October."  
  
"October!" That meant five more weeks of semi-imprisonment for Harry, and ten for Sirius. "Why so long? Isn't there any way to speed it up?"  
  
"The Ministry took some harsh criticism for its former 'quickest-fix' policy. They're being cautious now. They won't commit to anything without verification in quadruplicate." Sirius brushed Harry's fringe back, and Harry shrugged off the gesture.   
  
"I don't believe this. You already been here for..."  
  
"Two weeks. It won't kill me, Harry. I'd rather they take their time if it means my name will be irrevocably cleared in the end."   
  
Harry toyed with the end of his belt, pulling at the stitching. It mended itself the moment he let go.   
  
Sirius reached over a stilled his hands. "What's this?" he asked, fingers hovering over the tops of the pictures peeking out from his pocket. Harry silently handed them over and watched his godfather's face shift through a gamut of emotions before he finally said, "This is the grossest thing I've ever seen."  
  
Harry managed a smile. "Cool, isn't it?"  
  
"Very. Can you tell if it's a boy or a girl yet?"  
  
"Not yet. Madam Saddler says he's hiding it from us." Harry shifted under Sirius' gaze. "What is it?"  
  
"Merlin. You're really pregnant. Do you... um... get sick in the mornings?"  
  
"Not since I left the Dursleys. At least, not very often. And if I do it's at night, not in the morning. I've actually had more problems with sore feet and weird cravings."  
  
Sirius laughed. "You must have gotten that from your mother. When Lily was about eight months along your father stumbled out of my floo one night at three in the morning. Apparently Lily wanted fruitcake in July, and James had been all over the country looking for some, and finally remembered my Aunt Elspeth sent me one every Christmas."  
  
Harry grinned. "No wonder I hate fruitcake."  
  
"Everyone hates fruitcake, Harry."  
  
"With me it's Marmite. The house elves have been spoiling me though. I don't even have to ask for it, they just send a little dish with every meal."  
  
"I'm glad someone is taking care of you."  
  
"The elves are wonderful, even if they go overboard sometimes. And..." Harry took a deep breath, not wanting to leave his godfather trapped in a cell worrying over him. "And Lucius has been tolerable. Except for wanting custody of the baby. And for yelling at me in Draco's room."  
  
Sirius ran his thumb along the photo's edge, hissed when it cut him. "Listen, if you need to talk about that--"  
  
"It's all right."  
  
"He was a self-centered little snot. But he was crazy about you."  
  
"I know. But if you want to talk about Professor Lupin--"  
  
"I'm dealing with it. Did Snape get a medal?"  
  
Harry dredged up the memory of a specter of hollow smugness hovering over him. "I think so. He came to see me in the hospital wing, but I was pretty out of it."  
  
"We'll have to do something nice for the greasy bastard," Sirius muttered.  
  
"I could fall off the face of the earth."  
  
They looked at each other, and burst out laughing.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Willy Carmichael came to fetch him at half past five. "Sorry, Mr Potter, but visiting hours were over at five, and Mr Malfoy's been waiting for you in the lobby."  
  
Harry looked up from the massacre taking place on the table. "Well, at least I won't get my bum kicked for a fourth time." He rose from the bed as Sirius rose from the chair, and Sirius made a show of spinning him around.   
  
"Sorry, Harry, but there's definitely four boot prints there."  
  
Harry laughed, then blinked against a sudden prickling in his eyes. He hoped the lighting concealed it. Regardless of lighting and wet eyes, Sirius caught him in another embrace, awkward as Harry didn't quite know what to do with his hands. He finally settled for patting Sirius' shoulder, then gave up the pretense and hugged his godfather back.  
  
"If you send an owl to me care of Juno Juniper of Witten and Gemot, she'll make sure I get it," Sirius whispered in his ear.  
  
"I will." He pulled away, and followed the guard out of the cell. At the door he stopped and waved, and Sirius lifted a hand in return. The door shut with a hollow clang, and Harry turned away, enduring Willy's silent sympathy.  
  
The guard paused at the base of the stairs. He had a piece of parchment, ragged on one edge where it had been torn from a larger sheet, and a self-inking quill in his hands. He clutched both to his chest.. "Mr Potter, do you think..."  
  
Harry looked at the quill and parchment, and his first instinct was to stammer an apology and bolt. But then he thought of Sirius in the warm, well-lit cell, and the scarf across the back of the chair. "All right. What's your wife's name?"  
  
"Enid, Mr Potter."  
  
*Willy and Enid:   
Thank you for your kindness. I'll never forget it.   
Harry Potter.*  
  
He handed the paper and quill back, and tuned out the man's effusive thanks.  
  
They met up with Malfoy in the lobby, and Harry said goodbye to Willy before following Malfoy to the lobby's set of fireplaces, lined up like a bank of lifts. Malfoy took a pinch of the red floo powder from the dispensers -- there were four colours all together, and Harry wondered what the other two did -- then a pinch of a silver variety from his own small bottle, which he said would let them past the manor's wards. The flames flared, and they stepped in, and in a moment the system spat them out in the India Zephyr room. Nilly and Rollie promptly appeared to clean the mess from the carpet and their clothes.  
  
Malfoy looked at him, one eyebrow raised.  
  
"Thanks for taking me," Harry mumbled, brushed off a stray bit of ash, and left to go find Sthanadu. 


End file.
